Thanatos Denied
by UrgentOrange
Summary: MW3 AU, immediately follows the events of MW2. After their rescue by Nikolai, Soap receives lifesaving medical attention, while Price must deal with inner wounds of his own. Forced to lie low in Afghanistan, they are reunited with an old friend, but soon find themselves on the run from former allies.
1. Blood on the Sand

_**LEGAL DISCLAIMER:**__ MacTavish, Price, Nikolai and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty:Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games._

_**A/N:**__ Though this is still a work in progress, much of this story was written early in 2010, until life intervened and brought it to a grinding halt. It then sat on the shelf for about six months. If it weren't for the assistance and encouragement of my wonderful beta, __**Sassy Satsuma**__, it might have stayed there forever. You have my utmost gratitude! Now, finally, maybe this will get finished! Any similarities to other fics posted since then are purely coincidental. Thanks for reading._

_***Original post 1/21/11; revised 5/6/12, 2/16/13, 9/7/2013. Thanks again to Sassy for dialogue and other help.***_

* * *

**Thanatos** **\tha-nə-****ˌ****täs\ **

**1. The Greek personification of death. **

**2. Sigmund Freud's "death drive" - the human pursuit of self-destruction**

* * *

The winds of the sandstorm were dying down. Fine powdery dust spun and settled on everything: the rusty beams, pipes and decrepit tin buildings of the oil yard; the overturned zodiac at the riverbank, the smoldering wreckage of the helicopter, the abandoned pickup truck, and the bodies of several men.

Captain John Price's head spun when he attempted to open his eyes, so he immediately screwed them shut again. His next breath became a coughing fit until he retched, every spasm punishing him further with intense pain in his side. As if that weren't enough, various other injuries made themselves known to him, chiming into a chorus of misery.

Opening his eyes again, he saw that the weight pressing across his body like an iron bar was the dead man's leg, which he flung away in disgust. _Bastard._ Strange, he didn't remember killing General Shepherd ... he remembered being on the losing end of the fight, but nothing else.

With a groan, he rolled over onto his hands and knees. He rested his head on his folded arms, gingerly breathing through the pain, waiting for the spinning to stop. When he looked up, the distant form of Captain John "Soap" MacTavish came into focus.

Awareness returned in a cold rush of uncertainty. MacTavish lay on his back, unnaturally still, marking the end of a spattered red trail in the sand. Blood covered his face and soaked the front of his jacket.

"Soap?" Price rasped from a dry throat, extending a wavering hand. His pain forgotten, he staggered to his feet and rushed to MacTavish's side, reeling from a fresh wave of dizziness. "Soap!" he shouted, stumbling to his knees. Half-open eyes sluggishly followed the movement, then drifted shut. Price's own heart was pounding as he jabbed two fingers into MacTavish's neck, finding a rapid pulse.

Simply put, Soap was a mess. An angry-looking, lacerated knot was welling up over his eyebrow. One eye was red and swollen. Blood streamed from his nose, which appeared to be broken. Price knew he had yet to see the worst of it. He peeled aside the bloody layers of chest rig, jacket and shirt to reveal the oozing stab wound just below Soap's ribcage.

He rummaged through his waist bag. Fumbling in his haste, he tore open a packet of Combat Gauze. Packing it into the deep wound and applying pressure, he noticed that Soap's abdomen felt rigid to the touch.

_Shit. _

Seeing the bloodstains on Soap's gloves, he realized the origin of the knife currently sticking out of Shepherd's eye. _The stubborn bugger!_ He huffed, flashing a brief grin and shaking his head at Soap's tenacity. He couldn't help himself.

It reminded him of the moment in the Credenhill Camp, over five years ago, when he'd first met the young Scot with the icy blue eyes and the dark mohawk. It had been MacTavish's first official day in the Regiment. After a quick sizing-up, Price had offered a scornful glare and a typical greeting: _"What kind of a name is Soap, eh? How'd a muppet like you pass Selection?"_

A few days ago in Petropavlovsk, he couldn't have been happier to see anyone else.

With increasing alarm, he noted both the warm red stain spreading on the gauze and the coolness of the pale skin beneath his hands. Soap needed a drip in him, but with his minimal first aid kit, Price could do little for the blood loss. MacTavish's face tightened, clenched jaws stifling gasps of pain into muffled grunts. He began a semiconscious effort to fight Price, batting at him, trying to push away the hands that were hurting him.

"Stop it, Soap! I have to do this, I'm sorry. Stop!" Price grappled with MacTavish's flailing hands while trying to keep one of his own firmly on the gauze. "Soap, you're bleeding – I have to keep the pressure on. I know it hurts." A guttural cry tore into the empty surroundings. "I know." The moments that passed, while Soap moaned and writhed in response to his ministrations, felt like an eternity. Long enough to make Price wonder why he was even putting him through this. All he was doing was delaying the inevitable. They were stuck in the middle of a desolate sandy nowhere, with no help in sight, the only remaining members of their team. Without an immediate casevac, Price would soon be the last, and probably not for long.

He fished out the autoinjector that he was carrying, glancing at the orange label. In Soap's current condition, it wasn't the best idea – if there were hope of rescue.

Now it would at least ease his passing.

Soap pulled on Price's wrist, trying to pry his hand away. For the moment, Price had to allow it. "Just hold on, I'm going to give you some morphine." He popped off the red safety cap.

His heart sank even further when he heard the beat of helicopter rotors in the distance. More Shadow Company boys coming to finish the job, no doubt. Like Price's own Taskforce 141, they'd been handpicked by Shepherd himself. Price didn't want to guess what they'd done to Roach and Ghost. All he knew was that the two surviving Taskforce members in the Caucasus were dead now because his warning had come too late.

So this was it, then. They'd shared such a moment before, thinking it was all over. Close, but it hadn't been their time yet. Now after Zakhaev, Makarov and everything else, this would be their end. At least Price had the cold satisfaction that they'd brought Shepherd to his.

He sucked in a sharp breath, ignoring the white-hot dagger of pain. The regret hurt far more. He clapped a hand on MacTavish's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. Saying goodbye.

The thumping grew louder. He lowered his head for a moment, closing his eyes. Another painful breath, a glance at the sky, then he pressed the purple end of the tube to Soap's thigh and thumbed the button. He kept it there for a few seconds, allowing the injector to empty itself into the muscle, then tossed it aside.

Soap's grip on him gradually loosened, the fingers of one hand still curled around Price's offending wrist, the other dropping back down onto the sand. Price hoped it meant the morphine was starting to take effect, though MacTavish's brow was still furrowed. His breathing was rapid and shallow, too fast for a man at rest. The continuous trickle of blood from his nose and forehead painted deep red streaks against pallid flesh. It was pooling around his right eye, and Price reached down to carefully wipe it away.

The noise was deafening now, thrumming in his chest. They were here. Price remained motionless, kneeling before his friend as if in prayer, one hand still resting on the bloody gauze, staring into space.

_Forgive me. _

Their rifles and sidearms were long gone, lost in the river's swift current. Even if any bullets remained in Shepherd's revolver, it would be a symbolic gesture at best.

_The hell with 'em_. Price dug back into his pouch for more supplies, covering the sodden gauze with a fresh dressing. _Just make it quick, you bastards. _Having ceased his struggling, MacTavish stirred, roused by the thunderous vibration. Opening dull and unfocused eyes, he muttered something inaudible. Price taped down the dressing as tightly as he could, frowning at the result.

The shadow of the landing chopper floated into Price's peripheral vision. Flying grit blasted him. Shielding his eyes, he looked up and couldn't believe it – no dangling legs, no guns pointed at him - Nikolai? The skids hit the sand and the Russian pilot hopped from the cockpit, crouching beneath the still-whirling blades, his face dark with concern.

Price draped Soap's arm over his shoulder. "It'll hold for now, come on, get up."

He could feel Soap trembling as he hauled him up from the ground. Price was thankful that Nikolai hadn't listened when he'd said there would be no need for exfil. In his own style, he told him as much: "I thought I told you this was a one-way trip."

"Looks like it still is. They'll be looking for us, you know."

The pull on Price's shoulder increased with each unsteady step until Soap crumpled beneath him. Nikolai rushed forward, catching MacTavish just in time. Together, Price and Nikolai half-dragged him to the chopper.

"Nikolai – we've got to get Soap out of here."

"_Da. _I know a place."

They laid Soap out in the cramped back of the MH-6 Little Bird. He moaned at the manipulation, despite their efforts to be gentle. "Easy!" snapped Price. With a distressed look, Nikolai bit back his reply and pulled a dull green, silver-sided casualty blanket from the chopper's emergency kit. As they tucked it around Soap, Price exchanged concerned glances with Nikolai, who wasted no time in strapping himself in and spinning up the rotors.

Soap's weary eyes roamed the cabin ceiling until they found Price. He was trying to say something, mouthing Price's name, but the increasing whine of the engines drowned out any hope of conversation. Price leaned down to shout in his ear. "We're going to get you some help, you're going to be all right." Soap was slowly blinking, drifting away again. Price grabbed MacTavish's shoulder, regaining his attention with a sharp order. "Hey – stay with me!"

The sound grew to a roar. Nikolai pulled up on the chopper's collective and they lifted off. Through the doorway just beyond Soap's head, Price watched the oil yard shrink below them, until it rotated and drifted out of sight. The chopper picked up speed, the ground beneath them streaking past in a brown blur.

MacTavish's eyes were rolling back, blue fading into a bloody mask. Price jostled him. "Soap!" The commanding shout was lost in the wall of noise. Price shook him again, harder this time, Soap's head rocking with the motion as his eyes fluttered closed. Price's shoulders slumped, and he noticed the dark red stains on his own jacket. He looked down at his red sticky hands.

_Wherever it is, this place had better be close_.

* * *

They flew low, following the contour of the terrain as it rose into jagged mountains. The land was a sparsely vegetated, rocky moonscape. They passed over a few small villages that looked positively ancient. Price noticed the air growing cooler as they gained altitude, and he was becoming chilled in his wet clothing.

His chest felt tight. He wasn't sure if it was his imagination, but it felt like he had to work a little harder to breathe. He silently willed the chopper to fly faster, though he knew that Nikolai was already going as fast as he dared. Soap was deathly pale, and he hadn't stirred since takeoff. Price reached out to him. A weak pulse still fluttered beneath clammy skin.

At long last, Nikolai spoke some Russian into his headset. The Little Bird swooped between the mountains and settled down into the base of a deep bowl between the crags. Rock had been hewn from the base of the mountainside in order to create space enough for a helicopter to land.

Russian voices shouted over the thumping whine of the slowing rotors, as figures in long, baggy Afghan clothing surrounded the chopper. _Shemaghs_ covered their faces to keep out the swirling dust. Price caught glimpses of white skin and pale eyes beneath the black-and-white checkered fabric – definitely not locals. They hustled him aside. Though Price was relieved to see him open his eyes, MacTavish's face twisted in agony as they lifted him onto a stretcher. They rushed him away, and one of the masked men tugged at Price's sleeve, urging him to follow – not that he needed any encouragement. He spotted heavy machine gun positions on the surrounding hillsides. He followed the small crowd past a group of sentries and through a pair of blast doors, into a bunker set deep in the heart of the mountain.

Armed men, dressed like the stretcher-bearers, parted to make way for them as they hurried down a corridor. It was dry, well lit and finished in smooth, painted gray concrete. Pipes and conduits ran along the walls, along with the occasional warning sign ("_ВНИМАНИЕ_!"). Whoever had been there before had planned on digging in for a long time. Nikolai appeared at Price's side. "Is this place what I think it is?" asked Price, his eyes trained on the stretcher party ahead of him.

"An old Soviet base, from when we were here the first time," said Nikolai.

The current occupants were well equipped, judging both by their weapons and by the infirmary that they walked into. Price saw modern medical equipment sitting in corners and a row of neat cots in a nearby room. Curtained exam areas had fully stocked shelves and cabinets lining the walls. Nikolai was certainly a man with connections, though it was unclear with whom. Price had a feeling he'd soon find out.

* * *

**ВНИМАНИЕ:** (vneeMAHnyeh) ATTENTION.

**Casevac: **AKA CASEVAC, abbreviation of casualty evacuation; emergency transport of wounded from a combat zone.

**Collective: **Lever that resembles a parking brake. Located alongside the pilot's leg, it's used to control a helicopter's lift and speed; a twist throttle is located at the tip of it. The joystick-looking thing is the cyclic, which controls direction.

**Combat Gauze: **A brand name; gauze impregnated with kaolin to stop moderate to severe bleeding.

**Shemagh: **A kaffiyeh; woven scarf of checkered cotton, usually black and white. Commonly worn in the Middle East and Southern Asia.


	2. Hemostasis

_**LEGAL DISCLAIMER:** MacTavish, Price, Nikolai and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty:Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games._

_**A/N: **Thanks so much for the reviews/favorites and to my beta **Sassy Satsuma **for her continued support, patience with my ramblings, and for helping me to speak better British! ;-)_

___***Original post February 2011; major revision 5/13/12. Beta'd again by Sassy***_

___**Revised 9/7/2013**_

* * *

"_Raz...dva...tri..."_

Soap gasped as he was lifted onto a brightly lit exam table. Medics wearing gloves and plastic aprons swarmed around him, cutting off his bloody clothing.

"His pendant – underneath his shirt – it's got his blood group on it," shouted Price, to no one in particular. "Nikolai, tell them!" A dark-haired, bearded medic pulled up the chain to glance at the dog tag and, finding Soap's own morphine pen, spoke to the other Russians working on MacTavish. "And tell them he got ten of morphine," Price added.

The team hovering over the blood-smeared, almost naked man was in constant motion. Velcro crackled as a blood pressure cuff was wrapped around Soap's bicep. One medic carefully fitted an oxygen mask over his battered face while a second snapped a rubber tourniquet on his other arm and began probing the crook of his elbow for a vein. The dark-haired one stuck his stethoscope in his ears and leaned over MacTavish, listening to his chest. He spoke Russian in a commanding tone, snapping his fingers in front of his nose, trying to keep his wandering attention. Soap blinked back at him, clearly having difficulty just keeping his eyes open.

Price watched the face of the man taking vital signs. He didn't seem too pleased with his findings as he reported them aloud to the group.

Terse orders were barked out in Russian. The plastic of the mask clouded with his breath as Soap groaned, softly at first, then louder in response to the removal of his dressings and the examination of his injuries. Price's gut twisted at the sound, and at his own helplessness as bustling medical personnel jostled him further away from the scene. Tubing was taped to Soap's arm while an IV bag was hung overhead and the clamp thumbed wide open to begin pouring fluid into him. Paper backing was peeled from small white disks; they were pressed to his chest and monitor wires snapped into place.

A second drip was being started as the dark-haired medic, his stethoscope now dangling from his neck, leaned over MacTavish and spoke in heavily accented English. "Hello, my friend. What's your name? John? John, I need you to look at me. That's it. Tell me what happened. Do you hurt anywhere besides your belly?" The mask muffled Soap's faint replies. "All right. Listen, John. We're going take you to surgery in a few minutes. I'm going to give you something to make you sleep, okay?" Soap nodded weakly.

Soap's tattoos stood out in stark contrast to his ashen pallor, and Price cursed his inability to give proper aid in the field. When they'd set out after Shepherd, they hadn't exactly planned on rescue. So they'd packed light. They'd never expected to survive, much less need a trauma kit. It had been one of the first things left behind. If they hadn't, Soap would have been stabilized by now. Instead, he looked like he could be going into shock, and once that happened…

He thought of Soap's family. Would Shepherd's version of the story be all they knew about the fate of their son? It was unacceptable. Somehow, some way, in whatever time he had left, he had to get word to them, to tell them the truth.

If only they'd been a little closer, flown a little faster...

Price jumped at a sudden loud alarm from the monitor, a high-pitched pinging that was quickly silenced by one of the group. Their movements remained calm, organized and deliberate. He tried to stay focused on that, and the fact that as critical as he was, Soap was still responsive.

His gaze descended to the forest of feet and legs milling around the scene. The floor was littered with discarded dressings, wrappers and small empty boxes. Fresh blood spattered their shoes. His eyes were drawn back upward by shadowy figures outlined by harsh light, smudges of red, a glint of metal. A pair of blue-gloved hands held up a syringe, drawing up a dose of medication. Dizziness descended on him like a lead curtain, and he closed his eyes for a moment, breathing through it.

"He's in good hands," Nikolai said, his sudden close presence startling Price. "Now you should let someone take a look at you."

Price didn't respond to Nikolai's urging; his eyes were glued to the hive of activity on the other side of the room - the room that was now tilting slowly to the side. He screwed his eyes shut again, which only seemed to intensify the ringing in his ears.

Nikolai came closer, his voice softening. "Price, there is nothing more we can do. You need to be seen to now."

"I'm fine," Price snapped. "I've had worse."

That was all too true. Price would not readily admit to some of the things that were done to him in prison; he kept those memories deeply and safely buried. But it was also true that his discomfort was growing. Dried blood and sand pulled at the raw skin of his face. His eyelashes tickled the puffy flesh around his eyes, one of which was swelling shut. The throbbing in his head and face was relentless now, along with the ever-present pain in his side and the shortness of breath. He recognized it for what it was – he'd broken ribs before. More worrisome to him was the pain that radiated through his back, abdomen and left shoulder. He felt sick, and knew that it wasn't just out of concern for Soap.

While medical instruments were being laid out nearby, Soap went limp and silent, eyes closing once again. The dark-haired medic stood at the head of the table, watching him. He pulled the mask from MacTavish's face and nodded to one of the others, who injected another drug into the IV line. The Russians crowded around Soap, making it difficult to see what was happening. Price caught glimpses of them tilting his head back, putting something in his mouth, inserting a curved tube down his throat… Price's hands tingled. He felt odd; something was wrong.

With nods and murmurs of agreement, the crowd began to disperse. They'd attached a blue resuscitator bag. One medic squeezed it in a gentle rhythm while another secured the tube in place with cloth ties.

_Whoosh ... Whoosh … whoosh_. Right in time with the pulsing pain in Price's skull – it matched the pounding in his chest. The bright lights overhead were hurting his eyes...

Everything was fading to gray...

_CRASH!_

A tremendous metallic clatter erupted next to Price. Footsteps and voices surrounded him. "_Chyort_," one swore. Hands caught him under each arm and began steering him … somewhere.

Nikolai's voice sounded strange. "I've got him. All right Price, that's it, let's get you in here." The hushed voices all blended into a hum. The ground shifted, and he felt like he was floating...

* * *

With a crisp snap, fumes of ammonia seared into his sinuses; Price gasped and jerked his head up. An arm reached up to tilt the overhead lighting out of his face. He was lying on a trolley, surrounded by drawn curtains. Nikolai was leaning over him, along with the same medic who'd spoken to Soap earlier.

"Nikolai —" Price winced. He had a splitting headache, and felt like someone was sitting on his chest.

"He's in surgery. And no, you haven't been out that long."

The medic tossed away the crushed ampoule of smelling salts and turned back to Price. His dark brown wavy hair and beard were filtered with threads of gray. He looked to be in his forties, though his brown eyes were older than his face – eyes that had seen too much, too quickly. "Captain Price."

Price flinched involuntarily when the man reached for him. The medic stopped for a moment with a flicker of concern, then raised the head of the trolley a bit, relieving some of the pressure in his head and chest, but not much. Price peered back at him in confusion.

The solemn expression shifted to dry amusement. "Let's just say your reputation precedes you. I'm Misha, one of the doctors here. You were swaying on your feet, knocked over my cart." Careful hands touched Price's face. "What happened here?" Misha asked, flashing a penlight into his swollen eyes.

Price stopped squinting and fixed him with a look. "History."

Misha's eyebrows shot up. That put a stop to the questions — for now.

When Nikolai and Misha helped Price to remove his jacket and shirt, his injuries really began to register. Now that the adrenalin rush had worn off, there were few parts of him that didn't hurt. Every breath was a vicious stab of pain.

Misha's eyebrows arched again at some of the fresh scarring on Price's body, but he prudently remained silent.

Nikolai met the doctor's eyes. "I think it's time I got out of the way. I'll be back in a little while."

After the 141 had literally broken him out of prison, Price had known better than to let their medics anywhere near him - they'd have kept him off the mission in a heartbeat. He'd insisted he was fine, and he'd prevailed, but not before he'd been confronted by a few skeptical teammates, Riley especially. Though it had stung his pride, Price had resorted to pulling rank.

The debate hadn't ended well.

Now it had all finally caught up with him. When Misha's hand pressed into his abdomen, Price's breath hitched and he gripped the trolley's tubular frame, his knuckles whitening. Though he'd never been very fond of them to begin with, he'd never realized it until now: he couldn't stand doctors. All the poking, prodding … the incessant questions. The clinical smell. He glared up at Misha. "Thought you lot were supposed to make me feel better."

"You will."

"Then hands off, eh? I have to sit up. I can't breathe and my head feels like it's going to explode."

"In a minute."

Misha touched another sore spot, and Price nearly flew off the trolley.

Pain and fatigue had gotten the better of him; they carried on with their examination, unimpressed with his further attempts to argue with them. Afterward, the change of clothing seemed to be a peace offering. The baggy Afghan tunic and trousers were soft and warm, a welcome relief from being cold, wet and sandy – if he could just get them on. He attempted to brush off the medics' assistance but had to stop. "You said those pills would take the edge off. What edge?" he panted, his eyes squeezed shut. "They're not doing a damned thing."

"We can't give you any of the 'good stuff' right now. Not with that concussion," said Misha. He finished pulling the shirt over Price's head and began to help him lie down again. "Relax, we're not done with you yet." The other Russian medic sorted through a cabinet, pulling out little glass tubes for a blood sample.

Price had other ideas. He started to get up. "The man that was brought in with me – " Pain finished his sentence for him.

"Nothing yet, my friend. They are still working on him. Now," Misha said, easing Price back down. "It is time to take care of _you_."

Price sighed in resignation.

* * *

**_Chyort:_ **Damn!


	3. Nanawatai

_**LEGAL DISCLAIMER:** MacTavish, Price, Nikolai and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty:Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games._

_**A/N: **Thanks again for reading, and for your kind reviews! :-) As ever, much gratitude to the wonderful, talented and very busy **Sassy Satsuma, **who has her hands full between writing her own fics and giving beta time to myself and **VerityA**. _

_***Original post February 2011; major revision 5/14/12. Beta'd again by Sassy***_

_**Updated 9/7/2013**_

* * *

The time crawled in the terrible twilight between exhaustion and sleep. The pain in his head and face throbbed away the seconds like a watch. The pain in his ribs was worse.

The springs of the infirmary cot squeaked as Price pulled his knees toward his chest to ease the cramping in his belly. He'd otherwise given up on finding a comfortable position. The ice pack for his face sat abandoned on the blanket, the bright, colorful woven pattern striking a note of false cheer in the drab room. It had that Eastern bloc look to it, with a line of institutional green paint ending halfway up the cracked wall. There was a string of red Cyrillic characters stenciled on it to go with the dusty fire extinguisher mounted in the corner. Pipes coated with a thick pebbled layer of light gray paint wound their way overhead past the cage lamps. At the moment, he was the ward's only patient.

He had refused to let them put an IV drip in him. Misha had granted him that one concession. Otherwise, the doctor had made it clear that there would be no further argument as he informed Price of his findings and that he was on bed rest from that point forward. As much as he hated it, Price did as he was told. He'd already known something was wrong before the phrase 'walking time bomb' had gotten his attention.

As a soldier, he had been conditioned to sleep whenever the opportunity presented itself. Not this time. Between the ineffective pain medication, the unbearable waiting and the too-familiar head-injury-questions-every-so-often drill, sleep was impossible.

Nikolai brought him a cup of tea, which soothed him somewhat, and tried to engage him in some small talk about some of their past adventures. But Price wasn't having it, and continued to brood in silence.

He hadn't yet truly processed the murders of Gary "Roach" Sanderson and Simon "Ghost" Riley just a couple of days before. The familiar empty ache was back in Price's chest, the kind that had nothing to do with his injuries, as he recalled the harsh words he'd last had with Riley, forever ending their conversation on that bitter note. Staring numbly at the wall, he thought of all the people he'd lost over the years. MacMillan, Gaz, Griggs ... to name a few. This was what he hated the most about being stuck here – hell, being stuck anywhere. As nature abhors a vacuum, he dreaded downtime – it lent itself too well to reflection.

Would he lose another friend today?

Exasperated, Nikolai gave up trying to talk to him and said he'd go see if there was any news.

* * *

He must have finally dozed off, because he startled at Nikolai shaking his shoulder. "Soap is out of surgery, and is doing well."

Bleary-eyed, Price bolted up from the bed and regretted it immediately. He choked back a curse as his injured body rebelled against the sudden movement. Hunched over, breath hissing through his teeth, he cautiously began to straighten himself upward.

Nikolai winced in sympathy. Not so long ago, he himself had been the recipient of such a beating. "You know you shouldn't be out of bed," he said. "But I know I can't convince you to stay there." Nikolai took Price's arm to help steady him as he got moving. "Let me help you, my friend ... it will get a little worse before it gets better."

"Thanks a lot, Nikolai," said Price dryly as they made their way to a nearby room.

Soap was in a brightly lit, curtained-off area that Price presumed to be for critical patients. He heard Nikolai blow out a sudden breath behind him, reflecting his own apprehension. Soft rhythmic beeping and harsh mechanical respirations punctuated the white noise of hissing air. Machines, oxygen equipment and IV poles surrounded the bed. Bags of clear fluid and blood dangled overhead, tubing snaking down like vines in a technological jungle. Amidst a twinkling constellation of tiny green lights and digital readouts, a jagged rainbow of waveforms rose and fell across a slim LCD screen. A musical series of beeps began, like someone quietly whistling a tune. While a nearby medic continued to take notes on a clipboard, another walked over to one of the machines and punched buttons on the keypad, silencing it. It was the ventilator; Price's eyes followed its thick pair of accordion-like blue air hoses to the endotracheal tube that arched from the corner of Soap's mouth.

Price swallowed, trying to hold back both the unease in the pit of his stomach and the unwanted memories. _Was this how it felt, lad? Was this what I looked like? _

Soap's unconscious face was still pale – rather, the parts that weren't bruised and swollen, such as his broken nose, which was bridged with a bandage. He was wrapped in a warm cocoon of woolen blankets, with only his hands sticking out. One hand had a loop of IV tubing taped to the back of it, and the other had a glowing red pulse oximeter clipped to the index finger. The curtains parted to admit a tall, gray-haired man dressed in green scrubs and a surgical cap. He poked his fingers into those hands and began to speak somewhat loudly in Russian.

Nikolai hurried to his side and leaned over to his ear. "Soap," he said. "Open your eyes. Squeeze his hands."

Eyes rolled beneath bruised lids. The hands clutched weakly in response.

Price sighed with relief. His body sagged with pain and fatigue as the doctor, satisfied with his first patient's condition, approached his second. Without preamble, he tilted Price's chin upward to peer into his face and begin addressing him in Russian. Price shrank from the unwelcome contact; it was all he could do to stop himself from shoving the man away from him.

Nikolai began translating. "He asks, do you know wh-"

"I know who I am, more or less where I am, and what day it is, for fuck's sake! And yes, I'm in pain. Tell him they can stop asking me!"

The corner of the doctor's mouth twitched upward; he understood _some _English. He lowered his voice, looking back and forth between Soap and Price while Nikolai translated.

"He says Soap was very lucky, and that he doesn't think he'll suffer any permanent damage. If there had been a few centimeters' difference in how he was stabbed, he would not have survived. He's stable, and will be asleep for some time. He says he can see that you are exhausted and uncomfortable, and can give you something a bit stronger now to help you rest. He also says that if you don't get some rest, you might wind up in surgery yourself."

After watching Soap sleep for a short while, breathing in rhythm to the _whoosh-click _of the ventilator, Price didn't offer too much resistance as he was put back to bed and given some pills. The act of settling down to sleep was a slow and painful business. However, within half an hour, warm darkness finally enveloped him.

* * *

Price slept through the night and most of the next day.

He took little notice when medics quietly slipped into the room to take his vital signs and study him with a critical eye. He would wake up briefly to answer questions/ask about Soap and fall back to sleep again until the late afternoon, when he finally woke to the squeeze and puffing of a blood pressure cuff. His nostrils twitched to the smell of ... fresh coffee. As he breathed in the smell more deeply, his eyes opened to see Nikolai standing next to his bed, steaming cup in hand.

"Welcome back, Price."

The medic finished taking his blood pressure and pulse.

"Someone has been asking about you, and told me one of these would get your lazy ass up and moving," said Nikolai, with no small amount of amusement.

"Oh really- _ugh,_" Price groaned as he struggled to sit up. The medic helped him into a sitting position, and after that small ordeal was over, spoke some Russian, inclining his head towards a small paper cup sitting on the bedside table. Price's mouth pressed into a frown.

"He says not to worry – the pills won't knock you out, they're just a mild painkiller," Nikolai said.

Price shook his head; Nikolai rolled his eyes. The medic shrugged, gathered his things, and after a brief exchange with Nikolai, went on his way.

Price snatched the cup from Nikolai, taking a big gulp. The black sludge definitely wasn't for the faint of heart – a sure sign of a military installation if there ever was one. He braced himself and stood up, letting the worst of the pain pass. He accepted the offer of his boonie hat, which Nikolai had picked out of the canvas duffel bag lying on the bedside chair. Taking another swig, Price began to follow him down the corridor, easing along as he worked his way through his soreness, and of course not wanting to spill his coffee.

Soap was dozing, the head of his bed raised halfway up. He was breathing on his own now, with slim oxygen tubing looped over his ears and under his bandaged nose. Most of the color had returned to his cheeks. Stitches tracked across the contused, lumpy cut over his eyebrow – soon to be another scar for his collection. Purple bruising had blossomed around both eyes. He wore a tunic similar to Price's. Multicolored monitor wires snaked out of his unbuttoned collar.

"I thought you said he was awake," said Price.

" ...'m awake," mumbled Soap in a raspy voice, without opening his eyes.

"Oh? And what exactly was that about _my_ lazy arse?"

"Mmm ... don't know what you're talking about."

Price chuckled. "How're you feeling, Soap?" he asked, easing himself into a chair.

"Ohh ... not too bad..." MacTavish slurred, squinting up at him.

"Oh, I can see that. You look like you've been on the piss. I bet you can't keep both eyes open at the same time."

To answer the challenge, one blue eye popped open to a tiny slit, and immediately clamped shut as the other peeked open.

"Umm, no..." came the sleepy confirmation. He coughed, and his face crumpled.

Guessing one source of Soap's discomfort, Nikolai spied a cup of water on the bedside table and brought it over to him. Price pushed himself out of his chair with a wince of his own, and helped support Soap's head as the cup was brought to his lips. He began to gulp deeply.

"Whoa – easy, not so fast – you'll make yourself sick," said Nikolai.

Soap stopped right then and begin taking deep breaths, and the two worried for a moment that that the warning came too late. But he settled down and they lowered him back into his pillows.

"Do you need anything else, mate?" Price asked.

One eye opened again slightly, then the other, to peer at each of the men standing over him.

"Aye ... nurses that aren't so damned ugly."

That got a good laugh from the pair, though Price's quickly turned into grunts of pain as he clutched his midsection. _Shit. _Laughing hurt like hell.

Soap didn't say anything further and was soon snoring, so Price followed Nikolai down the passageway toward another welcome smell: hot food.

* * *

**_Nanawatai_ [Pashto: ننواتی] - **Sanctuary


	4. Reunion

_**LEGAL**** DISCLAIMER:** MacTavish, Price, Nikolai and the other characters you'll recognize from Call of Duty 4:Modern Warfare and Modern Warfare 2 are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision – not mine. A big thank you to everyone who brought those games and characters to us, and for letting me take them on a joyride. _

_**A/N:** As always, thanks so much for your reviews – they mean a lot. A big shout-out to my beta **Sassy**** Satsuma** for dialogue help and for so cheerfully putting up with me! Also, thanks to my son for his explanations of cigar smoking and cigars in general. I wouldn't know; they all smell like ... uh ... they all smell the same to me. ;-)_

**_Updated 9/8/2013_**

* * *

They stepped into a large room with rows of long tables, which were full of men chatting, laughing and tucking into platefuls of food. Price's ears perked when he heard that some of the chatter was in English. This was especially interesting coming from some of the shaggy-haired, bearded men dressed as Afghans. A few quieted at the sight of the British stranger and began muttering among themselves, stealing glances at Price. Others took no notice, and Price pretended to do the same as Nikolai led him over to a particularly boisterous table.

It seemed they were having a pretty good story, because it was punctuated by loud Russian speech and bursts of laughter. The distinctive odor of clove cigarettes hung around the group. The men quieted and began to disperse with Price's arrival, to reveal the storyteller and a familiar face: a burly, ginger-haired, bearded man wearing jeans and a blue half-zip fleece pullover.

_Kamarov – should have known._ _Like a bad penny._

Along with his attire, Kamarov's grooming no longer complied with any sort of military regulations. His beard was not so neatly trimmed as it had been in the past, and his hair had grown thick and wavy, the curls just brushing his collar.

_He always was a lucky bastard._

Nikolai gave Price a knowing look as he clapped a hand on his arm. With a nod and the beginnings of a smile, he took his leave to join the group of Russians who had been calling him from across the room. They welcomed him with bear hugs and slaps on the back, and fell into loud animated conversation.

Kamarov's face fell when he saw who was standing next to him. "Price!" He rose from the table he had been sitting on. "How are you?" he asked softly, his expression earnest as he greeted his old acquaintance.

"Been worse. Why is everyone looking at me like that?"

"You've been worse," said Kamarov with a wry shake of his head. "But you've looked better."

_Seven shades better._ "Don't remind me."

Kamarov gestured toward the table. "Please – you must be hungry. Sit down and have something to eat."

That sounded pretty damn good to him. He was ravenous, and couldn't remember the last time he ate. As he settled himself into a chair, a groan escaped him.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'll be fine. Just a broken rib or two. Nothing to do but be miserable for a while."

Kamarov shot him a penetrating look, but switched gears with a short laugh. "You mean ... more miserable than usual?" He proceeded to cheerfully shout across the room in Russian.

After a few minutes of sipping of his now-cold coffee, a dish of hot stew and a slab of flat bread was set down in front of Price. Kamarov's face cracked into a grin as he watched Price tear into his meal.

"You eat like a starving dog, man ... or a -" his smile faltered as he caught himself.

"A prisoner?" Price asked pointedly around a mouthful of food, ignoring the sting of his split lip.

"_Da_," Kamarov replied after a moment.

Some of the nearby men grew a sudden interest in other things, and Price watched them attempt to look casual as they moved away from the scene. Kamarov sat beside him, sipping his own cup of tea as he continued to watch Price gobble his food.

After he'd finished, the Russian pulled a cigar from the front pocket of his pullover, and with eyebrows raised, offered it.

With an appreciative grunt, Price accepted, his reply automatic. "_Spasibo." _Imprisonment had been an effective teacher, though his Russian vocabulary never got far past elementary phrases and some very basic swearing. If Kamarov was surprised by it, he showed no sign. He produced a cutter, clipped off the cigar's cap for Price and waited patiently for his slow rise from the chair.

They walked past the group of sentries, some armed with RPKs, others with AK variants. Their clothing was an amalgam of Russian combat boots and gear, tactical vests, and the baggy Afghan _shalwar __kame__ez. _The men nodded as they passed. Once they were outside the entrance to the compound, Kamarov waved to the nearest machine gunner, who was leaning on sandbags next to a DShK. The man pulled the cigarette from his mouth and blew out a thin stream of smoke as he waved back.

Noticing Price's reaction, Kamarov grinned and said, "It might be old, but not too old where it counts."

That got a brief smile out of Price. "_Heh_ - aren't we all."

The sun was setting, deepening the shadows in the rocky mountainsides. A star twinkled in the purple dusk. Though the air was still warm, the breeze held the promise of an evening chill.

Taking out one of his clove cigarettes, Kamarov snapped open a lighter and lit it, then lit Price's cigar. They both took a drag, and exhaled slowly, watching a hawk wheel high above them as their smoke was stolen by the wind.

"A base like this has few secrets, but it's even worse than I thought," said Price. He used the act of smoking to mask his dismay, trying to shrug off the specter of humiliation clawing its way to the surface.

Kamarov's tone was apologetic. "Your escape from Petropavlovsk was remarkable, my friend. Few men make it out of there," he paused. " ...intact." His eyes hardened as he followed the hawk's flight. "A great many of us were sent there to rot. You remember Kolya, Anatoly ... did you see any of my men?"

Price caught the flicker of hope in Kamarov's eyes, and lowered his own to the ground as he spoke. "No. They were sure to keep me isolated. I rarely saw anyone else." A white lie. Though they had kept him separated from the general population, he had caught glimpses of some of the Loyalist prisoners, whom, since their arrival, had been rendered somewhat less recognizable. Kamarov was better off not knowing about it.

"The reputation of that place is well-deserved." The tip of the cigarette glowed, reflecting momentary embers in Kamarov's stony gaze.

Price blew out a mouthful of smoke. "Committed to the tower to await Makarov's pleasure," he said sarcastically. "The last day I was there, I thought it was my last day on Earth. The prodigal son himself was about to arrive, and when he did, they'd be sure to take their time. You know I couldn't allow that to happen."

Kamarov's eyes were drawn to Price's fingertips gripping his cigar; some of the fingernails were still growing in.

"No," he said. "But here you are. I saw you come back from the dead once already. Now you've escaped death again. Seems you still have some unfinished business with the living."

"Yes, I do at that," Price replied, his voice almost a whisper. He took a pull on the cigar and let the spicy smoke curl from his lips. The hawk dove to earth and rebounded, the body of a rodent twisting raglike in its talons.

For years Kamarov had very much been one of the 'friends like these', to the point where it had become a running joke in the Regiment. The fateful day five years ago had changed that.

"I'd thought I was standing over your body," said Kamarov. "You were pale as a ghost, not moving at all except when Kolya pounded on your chest. 8:35 am — that's when he and Anatoly almost gave up on you — almost. It took all their skills to keep you alive aboard the helicopter, and even after that… " He studied his cigarette for a moment. "Doctors said it was a miracle." A small smile. "They don't know you like I do … and your friend's almost as bullheaded as you are. When we loaded him onto the stretcher, I told him he would be all right, but truthfully?" Kamarov shook his head. "He was barely breathing when we found him. So much blood on his face, could hardly tell who he was. Thought for sure he'd lose that eye." He took another drag. "How _is _MacTavish?"

Price was more than happy to change the subject. "Doped up to the gills at the moment, but we'll see how he does when some of that has worn off."

They stood for a few minutes, smoking in silence, until Price could no longer contain the questions that consumed him. "So how is it that a group of Russians can hole up in Afghanistan, surrounded by neighbors that would just as soon kill you in your sleep? And don't tell me that they just think you're Chechens."

The corner of Kamarov's mouth tugged upward, and he nodded. "Ah," he began, taking a breath but stopping midstream. It was getting cold, and Price was shivering in his thin shirt. "It's something of long story. But come," he stubbed out his cigarette. "Let's get you some warmer clothes, then I'll show you to your quarters and we can can talk about it. Unless, of course, you'd prefer to remain in the infirmary?"

"Thanks, but no thanks. Soap will be all right, and I've had quite enough of those places. Just set me up with a bottle of painkillers – or a bottle of whiskey – preferably both and I'll be fine."

Kamarov chuckled. "That's what I thought you'd say."

They stopped by the infirmary to pick up Price's belongings and look in on Soap. Fast asleep in his nest of blankets, tubing and wires, he was completely oblivious to the medics examining him and the surrounding equipment.

_Enjoy it while it lasts, mate._


	5. Strange Bedfellows

_**LEGAL DISCLAIMER:** MacTavish, Price, Nikolai and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty:Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games._

_**This story is an AU, in which Operation Kingfish never happened.**_

_**Original post 2-28-2011; minor revision 6-2-2012**_

_**Revised 9/14/2013**_

* * *

"...and the armory is down that corridor," said Kamarov, waving an arm in that direction as they passed. "The troop quarters are this way." He carried the bundle of Price's web gear and clothing for the injured ex-captain, who walked alongside, his expression stoic.

Although eating had made Price feel better, all the walking around hadn't. The pain in his side stabbed him with every step. His head was again starting to throb. Despite all the sleep he'd gotten, he was still bone-weary. He tried not to think about it. Especially since there was so much else to occupy his thoughts.

_A machine gun that belongs in a museum ... but an infirmary full of machines-that-go-ping that would put many hospitals to shame. For a group of Russians on the outs with their own government, you're doing all right for yourselves. Someone still loves you, Kamarov. Someone with deep pockets. _

The headache was becoming more difficult to ignore. He felt lightheaded, spacey. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking as deep a breath as he could manage. _Come on - get it together, John ... mind over matter..._

"Price."

"What?"

Kamarov was looking at him sideways, unfooled. "You need to take it slow and get some more rest tonight. The doctor will look in on you later."

"Can't wait," said Price. "And as for taking it slow – that's the only speed I've got right now."

"Uh-oh. Escaped the infirmary early? Good for you, man," said an American voice.

Pain lanced through his side as his breath caught; he felt the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. As he fought to master his own response, Price noticed Kamarov's surprised reaction – it wasn't entirely pleased.

The voice belonged to a tall man in his late forties with a broad-shouldered, muscular build and silver wavy hair. A mischievous grin dimpled a rosy-cheeked cherubic face. "Kamarov," he boomed in greeting, pumping the Russian's hand. He then stuck his big hand out at Price. His frayed clothing was stereotypical: tan tactical pants, hiking shoes, a black shirt and fleece jacket, with the ubiquitous shemagh knotted around his neck. A Glock's familiar shape peeked out of the holster at his hip.

_Well, fuck me. This explains the money. _

"Hey man, how's it going," he drawled in a southern accent, not unlike Elvis. "Buzz. You must be Price."

_Bollocks. So much for that. _"Yeah," he replied cautiously, accepting the handshake.

"SAS? SBS?" inquired the big American.

There didn't seem to be much point in lying. The man's bright blue eyes were sharp and intelligent, scanning his face, watching his body language. "SAS - used to be," said Price.

"You're gonna find that most of us here are ex-something," said Buzz thoughtfully.

"Like you?"

"Is it that obvious?"

Price forced a smile and a nod.

"Well … they called me a 'quiet professional'. Strictly hearsay, of course." Buzz grinned. "Guys like us can peg another operator a mile away, don't ya think?"

"Helps to not wear the official uniform."

Buzz's eyebrows quirked as he looked down at himself. "Guess you got me there. We've got another Brit or two rattling around here somewhere. Maybe someone you know."

_Oh, brilliant_. He kept his face relaxed, casual. "Maybe. Ex-Delta ... so what are you now, then?"

"Ohh," Buzz rolled his eyes with a coy smile. "You know what they say – in the face of fear, uncertainty and doubt, there are consultants."

"No shortage of 'em these days. Let me guess - it's classified?"

"Yeah, you know how it is. Not hard to do the math, though," Buzz said. "And you?"

"Same thing."

"Fair enough," he said, though Price could see the wheels turning. The man wasn't buying this load of old pony any more than he'd bought his.

Kamarov had composed himself and pasted on a calm, pleasant expression. "Back already – I didn't think we'd be seeing you again for while."

"Me neither. Things wrapped up early for a change."

"How was it up there tonight?" Kamarov asked, nodding his head in the direction of the opposite corridor.

"All quiet. Off licking their wounds, I suppose. Did you guys leave me any grub?"

Kamarov's mockingly pained look broke into an admonishing smile. "For you, always. It's your favorite."

"Well then say no more! See you around." Buzz headed toward the dining hall. "Oh hey – Price?"

They looked over their shoulders.

"Hope your buddy's feeling better."

Price almost choked. "Thanks." With a nod and a hand in the air, Buzz disappeared around the corner.

Kamarov's eyes lingered on the empty hallway. "He has just come down off the northern observation post. We can go there tomorrow if you're feeling up to it – " his voice trailed off as he turned to Price.

There was a friendly shout from up ahead; Nikolai was approaching. His smile vanished in response to the looks on their faces. The temperature in the already chilly corridor seemed to drop by another couple of degrees.

"A word – in private – now," said Price.

* * *

For a man in his line of work, Kamarov was an unusually good-natured sort. When Price's team had been trapped at the bridge, he'd come to their rescue at top speed, despite their previous encounter in Azerbaijan. Price doubted he could have been quite so forgiving — if _he'd_ been the one dangled headfirst over a fifty-foot drop, he might have experienced sudden engine trouble. Kamarov had wasted far too much of their time; they'd feared that Nikolai's might have already run out. Since Gaz had been itching to have a go at Kamarov anyway, Price had finally let him. He'd enjoyed the show as much as anyone. Now he regretted it. Thankfully, Kamarov seemed the type to let bygones be bygones.

However, at the moment he was severely pissed off, and like most people would, had chosen his native tongue in order to express his displeasure.

Price didn't need to understand any of his ranting; it was clear that he was giving a sheepish-looking Nikolai a good bollocking. It wasn't long before Nikolai started angrily giving it back to him, and the argument was becoming heated. Price held up his hands trying to broker the peace.

" ...I know!" Kamarov finished shouting at Nikolai, and whirled around to Price. His face was bright red. "He neglected to tell me the part where you two killed an American general – and so did you!"

They had gathered in a small dim office at the end of a quiet corridor, which was somewhat of an obstacle course, having been piled with various boxes of supplies. The room itself looked forgotten, with dusty books, folders and paper strewn about in uneven piles. A three-year old calendar, the months labeled in Cyrillic, was hung on a cork board and featured an attractive woman posing with a Saiga-12 shotgun. It was accompanied by a poster detailing the breakdown of an AK-47. A stack of old magazines threatened to slide off the edge of the desk at any moment.

Indignant, Nikolai began to protest in Russian, and Kamarov held up a hand to silence him. "As you can see, we are getting help from foreign governments – including American Special Operations."

"Special Operations ... and that's not all," said Price. "Consultants," he sneered. "Ex-Delta, more like current CIA. Isn't that right, Kamarov? How many?"

"Two, plus their team of twelve, though their men aren't here at the moment."

Price had expected the explanation of the Russian presence here to be interesting, to say the least, and Kamarov hadn't disappointed him. Following the Ultranationalist succession to the Kremlin, the Loyalists had taken a lesson from past enemies and had gone underground, dividing into cells. Currently they were biding their time, gathering and funneling supplies, weapons and personnel back into Russia, in the hope of staging an eventual coup. Recent events in America, along with sheer necessity, had forged some intriguing alliances – especially this one.

_The CIA ... the more things change, the more they stay the same. Back again in Afghanistan with bags of cash, hoping to back the right horse._ Price was sure to keep that particular comment to himself. He seriously doubted that the two former Soviet soldiers would find the irony half as amusing as he did. _  
_

"You understand the position you've put me in."

"I do," said Price. Pangs of guilt again. Kamarov's debts to him had long been paid in full; now their positions had been reversed, with Price owing double. Since the incident at the bridge, he hadn't noticed the insidious return of his conscience, which he'd thought long-dead. He needed it to stay there. Guilt was a useless troublesome emotion, one best reserved for those who still held hope of redemption.

"You all need to leave as soon as possible."

"Duly noted," said Price, barely tamping down his irritation at the obvious. "But right now, Soap's not going anywhere, so neither am I."

"I just stopped in to see him," said Nikolai. "It's going to be a least a few days."

Kamarov cursed in Russian under his breath. "As soon as he can walk, we have a safe house to the north. My men can take you there."

"Apparently, word from Shepherd's camp doesn't travel fast, or we would have woke up in cuffs yesterday morning, " said Price. "The entire base seems to already know who we are."

"While I'm not so sure about the second and last parts, I agree on one thing – they don't seem to know," said Kamarov. "You know it won't be long before they do. I'll do what I can to keep them occupied and away from you. Although," he stroked his beard, shuffling from foot to foot as he turned away from them to think. "The local troublemakers have stepped up their activity lately." He was almost starting to sound optimistic. "The problem might take care of itself for the time being. Even so, you shouldn't stay for more than a couple of days. In the meantime, I'll assign a small detail. I'll put Sasha to work in the infirmary, and I'll put you and Nikolai up with... " His voice trailed off as he turned back toward the group, pondering the options.

"Sergei and Bogdan?" suggested Nikolai, who had straddled an office chair and was swiveling it back and forth in slow arcs.

"Yes – that's perfect," said Kamarov. He gave a dark huff. "So Price, it looks like you're going to be a 'consultant' after all."

"I can play along for a day or so," said Price. "Let's just hope their usual government infighting continues to work in our favor."

* * *

Price hissed in pain, squeezing his eyes shut. "Must you keep doing that?"

Misha clicked off his penlight. "Yes. Now follow it with your eyes," he said, waving it back and forth, up and down. "Good."

Nikolai and two other Russians looked on with casual interest as the medic conducted his bedside examination of Price, who had gotten settled onto a cot in their small quarters. Sergei, a close-shorn blond man with gray eyes and a medium build, sat on his own cot as he thumbed through a Russian fashion magazine, occasionally glancing over at Price's grunts of discomfort. Doing the same was Bogdan, a tall, bearlike, dark-haired silent man with a bushy beard. He could easily have passed for one of the locals. He was doing a detailed cleaning of his Serdyukov SPS pistol, which lay in pieces on a small folding table.

After a few minutes, Misha took the stethoscope from around his neck and frowned. "You don't look so good, Price. You should be back in the infirmary. You had to be stubborn, wouldn't let us treat you properly. Now you're walking all over the place – heard you just ate a big meal. How's that sitting?" Unfazed by the withering look, Misha began rolling up Price's sleeve, shaking his head. "You're not doing yourself any favors, my friend." With a firm tug, the tourniquet pinched the skin of his arm. "Have you at least been drinking enough?"

His mouth suddenly dry, Price swallowed and looked away. The room was cramped and stuffy, the stale air heavy with the tangy odor of gun solvent. At this point, the otherwise familiar smell was turning Price's stomach. His pulse pounded in his neck and temples, and he ignored the look that he felt Misha give him. Instead, he slowly took the deepest breath he could muster while he focused on the wall in front of him. From the collage of magazine pages pasted there, severe-looking runway models stared back at him with heavily made-up, lusty eyes.

"You look like shit, man," Sergei offered, in a gravelly Russian accent.

"Oh, thanks very much - _ah_." Price shot an exaggerated scowl at Misha, keeping his eyes off the needle in his arm. "Didn't you take enough yesterday?" Sergei smirked and went back to his magazine. Bogdan smiled quietly to himself as he pushed a brush through the pistol's bore, spraying solvent halfway across the room with a fresh blast of sickly-sweet aroma. Nikolai stood against the wall, hands in his pockets, shaking his head.

"I'll be fine," said Price, his arm now bent to hold pressure on the small bandage, hoping his relief wasn't too obvious.

"You will be," replied Misha. "But for now, you need fluids and rest." Reaching into his bag, he brought out a rattling plastic bottle. He shook out two pills and produced a tall bottle of water. "Here."

"I can't take stag like this – " Price began.

"No watch for you tonight," replied Sergei, cutting him off. "That's our orders. And now, you have yours," he said, inclining his head toward Misha.

"Come on Price, I need to get some rest too, I don't have all night," said Nikolai, taking off his jacket, unlacing his boots and settling down on the cot next to him.

Price scoffed at the vote against him, and washed down the pills with a swig from the bottle. "Keep it," said Misha when Price offered to return it to him. "And drink it – all of it." Now done with his lecture, his features softened. "You need to get your strength back for the days ahead, you're going to need it to help your friend." He pulled a blanket over him. Price bristled at being tucked in like a child, and pulled his hat down over his eyes to hide his annoyance as much as block out the light. He heard Misha pick up his bag with a sigh, and listened to the Russians converse briefly with each other as he left.

After a few minutes, Price slid the hat from his face. Grimacing, he brought himself back up on his elbows to drink his water. His nose wrinkled as he glanced over to the other side of the room, fighting his nausea. He concentrated on preventing the pills from making a reappearance.

"What's the matter? The fumes getting to you?" Sergei apparently didn't miss much. He tilted his head toward Bogdan. "You should smell his feet."

The placid expression never left Bogdan's face. He continued scrubbing the pistol's slide, tilting it from side to side in order to work the brush's bristles into the small crevices, not sparing a look at Sergei. "_Pizda."_

Sergei swelled up his chest with a smirk of mock sentiment and blew Bogdan a kiss. "See – he loves me."

Price chuckled in spite of himself. "You guys speak English pretty well. You do, anyway...were you – ?"

"FSB, yes. Both of us. We were in England together – New Rodina," he said with a grin. For a moment, Price thought the man was baiting him. Perhaps not; Sergei continued: "He speaks it too, but he doesn't say much in general. Don't worry," he said, and peeled up the edge of his mattress to reveal an AKS-74U underneath. "You're sleeping. We're not."

_New Rodina_, Price mused. The name meant 'new homeland'; a Russian joke, especially coming from those sent to the UK as spies. Now yesterday's spies were today's insurgents – and his protectors. Strange bedfellows, to be sure. He didn't want to think about what they were doing there to begin with. _Let's hope they don't offer me any tea, _he thought darkly. Now here he was, having to put trust in men that he otherwise wouldn't take his eyes off of.

It wasn't long before Price realized he hadn't much choice. His aches and pains were fading into the background, being replaced by a narcotic warmth. He soon found himself fighting to keep his eyes open.

As he finished his water, Price noticed Nikolai watching him out of the corner of his eye, a small smile playing across his puggish features. Between that and his less-than-average height, he wouldn't be doing any teen magazine shoots anytime soon. Yet if any women were present other than the ones pasted to the wall, they'd be here by now. It was a mystery they'd all given up on solving. Good on him.

"Sleep well, Price," he said, wrapping a pillow around his head, making himself comfortable on his side.

"Mmm...night," Price mumbled. He settled back down into his own pillow, pulled the hat back over his eyes and sighed, drifting off...

* * *

_**Pizda **_**[****пизда]****: **twat


	6. Mala Strana

_**LEGAL DISCLAIMER: **MacTavish, Price, Nikolai, Kamarov and the other characters you'll recognize from Call of Duty 4:Modern Warfare and Modern Warfare 2 are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision – not mine. A big thank you to everyone who brought those games and characters to us, and for letting me take them on a joyride._

_**WARNING:** Profanity, violence._

_**A/N:** I'm back! A shoutout to the Kiwi readers out there – I had the best time in New Zealand! =)_

_Thanks for your patience if you've been following the story so far. Here's a loonnng chapter for you, probably the longest in the entire story. The next one will be quite short in comparison._

_I confess that I'm making full use of artistic license here. I've never actually been to Prague, and although the setting is real, the geography as I'm describing it doesn't quite exist, because, frankly, I didn't want to spend the rest of my life google streetviewing the perfect route. I must admit, after doing the research I was enchanted by what I saw, and would like to visit someday. :-)_

_Huge thanks to my fabulous beta, **Sassy Satsuma,** for her help in developing this and for wading through this huge chapter twice! As always, reviews are much appreciated! Thanks for reading._

* * *

The next morning, Price grabbed a cup of the industrial-strength coffee and went to see Soap. When he arrived at the infirmary, he found the bed empty. He made his way through the maze of curtains and equipment until he found Misha slouched over his desk, chin propped in his hand as he pored over some paperwork, chewing on his pen.

"We needed the bed back for emergencies," said Misha, not yet looking up, as if he'd been expecting him. "He's over there." He dropped his pen and straightened up, finally giving Price a look of appraisal. "You're looking better." He stood up and stretched, cracking his back.

"I'm getting along all right. How is he?"

"He could use some company, I think," replied the doctor with a sigh, as they walked to the ward where Price had previously stayed. "I don't think he's very happy with us right now. He has a touch of pneumonia, probably from inhaling river water, on top of being down for a few days. The antibiotics should take care of that. In the meantime, we had to get him out of bed for a few minutes, to get him moving. The first time up is never pleasant."

"Too right it isn't." Price frowned at the memory of his own experiences.

"Seeing you will help take his mind off things," said Misha, and nodded at Price as he went on his way.

Price entered the room to see MacTavish propped halfway up in bed, shoulders heaving slightly as if with recent exertion. The swelling on his face had gone down, leaving the ugly bruising to remain. His cheeks were slightly flushed and his eyes had a glossy, feverish look. He was down to one IV drip and was no longer tethered to anything else, so he could move around more easily if he wished. However, judging by the look on his face, he'd already had enough movement for one day.

"All right, Soap – worn out your welcome already?"

"Price," was all Soap could manage for the moment.

"Heard you're up and about."

Soap winced as he shifted around on the bed, trying to get settled. "Against my better judgement."

Price lowered himself into the bedside chair, stifling a groan. He did feel better today, but was still quite sore.

That got Soap's attention. "Oi, looks like you've been through the wringer. What's the score this time?"

Price sighed as he went through the inventory. "A concussion, cracked ribs, internal bleeding – bastard kicked me while I was down. Plus a face only a mother could love, though not quite as pretty as yours is right now."

Soap grimaced. "I haven't seen it yet – I'm not sure I want to look."

"If it's any consolation, it's not as bad as last time."

MacTavish grumbled, "We should post a sign like they do in the factories – counting the days since our last accident."

Price laughed derisively, wincing. "I can't seem to make it more than a week."

Soap's expression softened. "How are you doing, old man – really?"

"A whole hell of a lot better after you showed up a few days ago."

"You'll live, right?" said Soap as he continued his restless squirming. What had begun as a gentle smile crumpled into a mask of pain with a whispered curse. He was referring to the day of Price's rescue. After dragging him out of that frozen hell, battered, bruised and thin, that curt brush-off was the most they could get from him when questioned about his well-being. After what he'd been through, Price had made it clear that the subject wasn't open to discussion.

Price sighed again. "You, of all people, deserved better than that."

It's all right – " Soap began, looking up at him.

"No. All that talk about taking inventory, knowing it might be your last day – I'd done that before we'd ever gone after Shepherd. If you hadn't come when you did..." his voice trailed off in hesitation, until he finally met his eyes. "I was about to top myself," he said, flatly making his confession.

Soap's eyes widened, but he said nothing.

As the growing silence threatened to stifle them both, Price settled back into his chair to tell him what had happened. He owed him at least that much...

* * *

_PRAGUE._

_A flock__ of fluttering birds rose and fell over rolling waves of buildings with tall facades and soft, ornate curves; a mosiac of easter-egg pastels topped with red-tiled roofs and green church domes. The largest ancient castle in the world presided over this legacy of empires, __centuries of architecture left largely untouched by two world wars. __Dark gothic spires stabbed fang-like into the sky, standing guard over a city that, at first glance, looked like something out of a storybook. The spell was broken at street level with graffiti tags, too many cars and too few parking spaces. C__athedral bells rang in welcome to the visitors that flocked to this tourist magnet of Eastern Europe._

"_Tracking – I'm on them," said a voice with a cockney accent, as the camera zoomed in from high above, into the bustling street, to zero in on two men in particular._

_A few streets over, on an eventual collision course with the pair, a man in jeans,__ boots and a black leather coat wound his way purposefully through the crowds. A black knit watch cap covered his short brown hair, graying at the edges. __Hi__s face, lined with age and experience, cheeks pitted with a few acne scars, was ruggedly handsome. Keen blue eyes continuously scanned not only the street, but the windows and rooftops as well. It was a habit, as natural to him as breathing._

_The air was heavy with the smell of recent rain. The weather had been unseasonably cool__, requiring the warmer layers that were quite convenient for concealing weapons and communications equipment. It also allowed for the hat, which while unnecessary to hide his earpiece, helped Price retain at least some of his vanity. _

_The breeze felt cold and strange on his naked face. In order to not be easily recognized, he had taken the one step necessary to enact a major change in his appearance, and shaved off the beard and sideburns that he had worn for many years. He wasn't looking forward to the part where it all started growing back._

_Price took a seat at a sidewalk cafe and ordered a coffee from a waitress that fortunately spoke English. Crossing his legs, he unfolded a Czech newspaper and pretended to read._

_His __earpiece came to life. "He's in position."_

_When __Shepherd had come calling to assemble Task Force 141, they had all jumped at the chance. Soap was on official loan from the Regiment, and welcomed the change of scenery and a the chance to work with other special forces operators from the US, Canada, Australia and New Zealand. Price, now in mandatory retirement from the SAS, had been working the Circuit for a few years on close protection jobs – for those who could afford it. He traveled to exotic locations, rode in limousines, had his favorite __M1911__ pistol as a backup and an MP5K under his jacket._

_He had been bored to tears._

_They'd be working together again, and with other familiar faces from the Regiment, such as Riley. And they certainly couldn't say no to the pay._

_Acc__ording to Shepherd's intel, Makarov was using his safehouse in Prague to lie low after the London job – and that he had something big in the works, something even more ambitious. No matter. Their orders, with the Czech government's (deniable) blessing were simple: capture or kill._

_Task Force 141 members mingled among the civilians. Most were impersonating other tourists. Some were in overhead positions; MacTavish was high above in a bell tower, his __suppressed __HK G36C__ resting on its bipod beside him. Along with him was Ghost, his face ever-hidden by the skull balaclava, the blue glow of the laptop screen reflected in his sunglasses, surrounded by disapproving stone angels and leering gargoyles. Price caught himself smiling at the image._

_They couldn't believe their luck; not only had the intel been solid, but they had caught sight of Makarov and some of his men on the very first day. They continued to observe for the time being, taking their measure; the right opportunity had yet to present itself. Though Makarov wasn't beneath skulking in the slums, he had chosen a busy, upscale area. The local attractions in the __Mal__á__ Strana__ district ensured a plentiful supply of human shields. This wasn't going to be easy._

_Price took a sip of coffee and stifled a yawn as he continued to scan the activity around him. This was the bulk of the work on these sorts of jobs, the waiting. As a sniper, he had learned the true meaning of patience, and it served him well now. His eyes sifted through the masses on the other side of the busy avenue._

_A woman suddenly filled his vision. She was blond and in her late thirties or early forties. She was tastefully dressed and made up, attractive in a mature way. She held a panting Pomeranian in her arms. She smiled. She must have seen his bemused expression and taken it as an invitation to chat. Sure enough, she started to speak to him in Czech._

_**Bollocks.**__ Price didn't understand a word. He mustered an anemic smile. "Uhh..."_

_Soap's voice piped up in his ear. "__Fox Two__, HVTs approaching your position from the southwest." _

_Price leaned back casually in his chair, keeping any outward sign of interest at bay. He flipped the page of his paper as he looked over it, past the now-confused woman, watching Lev and Makarov pass by on the opposite side of the street. Right on time, and as described: black jackets, jeans, with Makarov sporting a light green shirt, Lev's a dark brown._

_Makarov was buying something from a street vendor. Price was surprised that he was conducting his errands himself, rather than putting his men to the task. __**How very egalitarian of him,**__ he thought. _

_All sarcasm aside, it was rather odd. Makarov had lived long enough to compile a list of deeds that the devil himself would be proud of, and he hadn't accomplished that by being careless. The respective governments backing the 141 were not the only ones howling for his blood, not by a long shot. Besides murdering other Russians, Makarov and his men had tangled with the likes of Turkey, Israel and Pakistan. Yet somehow, they were still breathing - for now. Price had to hand it to him, he did have an almost mysterious knack for survival._

_Finishing the transaction, the woman at the stand flashed the two Russians a winning smile. __**Darling, if you only knew.**__ The pair drifted back out into the flow of pedestrians, blue plastic shopping bags in their hands._

_**Wolves prowling the herd with impunity.**__ His eyes narrowed. __**Not for much longer.**_

_The woman in front him spoke again. He glanced at her, seeing her confusion giving way to annoyance._

_Time to move. Taking a final sip of coffee, he tossed some money onto the table, the metal chair legs chattering on the stones as he rose. "Sorry, love, maybe later," he said, as he brushed past her._

_Whatever she said to his retreating back didn't sound very kind. The dog, sensing its mistress's anger, yapped along with her._

_The timing couldn't have been better, he didn't need any more of a scene to draw attention to himself. __**Hell hath no fury,**__ he thought, __suppressing his grin __as he began to tail them. "Moving east toward the marketplace...out," he reported._

_The market was a riot of color. Between the fruit and vegetable stalls, the bouquets of flowers and bright red awnings, watching the two men weave through the shoppers was like watching grains of sand plunge through an hourglass. __ As he moved toward the corner, a mob began flooding in from a side street – a tour bus had just emptied out. Price immediately found himself adrift in a sea of badly-dressed humanity. __**Shit.**__ A heavy rumble and squeal of brakes announced an approaching tram._

"_They're right in front of me, but I can't get a shot," said Soap, __frustration edging his voice, his finger hovering near his rifle's trigger.__ "There's too many people."_

_The voices in his ear were being drowned out by the increasing noise, along with the squawks of protest as Price elbowed his way through the herd. The red-and-white tram cars hummed to a stop, blocking his view. The crowd thickened as people disembarked, with more waiting to get on. He fought to carve a path until he was at last around it, glancing quickly in all directions to again catch sight of the pair, who had vanished. _

"_This is Fox One, just spotted them. Keep moving, take a left after the market," said Royce, who was acting as Price's partner._

_Price took the left and gave a nod of acknowledgment as he passed Royce, who was loitering outside a restaurant. Pretending to talk on his mobile phone, he bobbed his head in return. They both watched the men hang a right at the next block._

"_They've just turned north, on the east side of the canal. Moving up. Out," said Royce. With a flick of his glowing cigarette and a grind of his heel, he was gone – moving ahead to circle around the two. Price continued to tail them while keeping his distance._

"_Fox Two, stand by," said Ghost. "There's some sort of disturbance ahead of them – a fight..." his voice trailed off for a moment, as he watched the laptop screen, observing a miniature crowd with two men circling in the center of it. A siren began to wail immediately below their perch. MacTavish leaned over the stone railing to see a blue-striped white car labeled "M__Ě__STSK__Á__ POLICIE" pushing its way through the traffic, lights flashing. Ghost panned the camera back to the the pair approaching the brawl. They must have heard it too; they paused, and after some brief discussion, changed course. "Oh, for fuck's sake," Riley muttered under his breath._

"_Fox Two, fall back – they're coming back down – fall back, acknowledge," said Soap._

"_Wilco," said Price, spinning around to backtrack._

"_Hurry up, Fox Two – they're almost at your position," MacTavish warned._

_Surrounded by open street, Price darted halfway down the block and did the best that he could to blend in – he inserted himself into a small group of people snapping photos of a statue. He turned his back to the Russians' direction and stared upward along with the tourists, hands in his pockets. Hopefully they wouldn't pass close by and notice the fact that, unlike the rest of the group, he wasn't Asian._

"_Stand by, Fox Two...they're now heading west across the bridge. Stand by...they're crossing the canal. All right, you're clear," said Soap._

_Price raised his eyebrows and sighed. "Roger that." He left the group of tourists, who were now eyeing him with suspicion, and started toward the bridge. His path was cut off by the approaching police car, now joined by another van. Lights flashing, they slowly cut through a snarl of traffic to turn up the corner. Delayed again, he waited, seething._

_Ghost groaned audibly. "They're heading north again – for the tunnel." This wasn't good news._

_It was bad enough that the city itself was a stony labyrinth. However, the pedestrian tunnel, which led the way underneath a large building, was a particularly weak spot in their surveillance. It was long, with multiple close-set buildings blocking the camera's view under the best conditions. Even after the two made their way through it, it would be a few minutes before Ghost would catch sight of them again. _

_As Price crossed the bridge, trying to catch up, Ghost swore suddenly in his ear. "I've lost the feed – we're blind!"_

"_Steady, Ghost." The calm in MacTavish's voice settled over them, and __Price couldn't help but feel a sense of pride in his proteg__é__. "__Team two – are you in place?"_

"_Affirmative," Archer replied, sitting in a delivery van alongside the driver, Toad._

_The technical difficulties couldn't have come at a worse time; it would be very easy to lose them if he didn't get back on their trail again, and fast. Price spoke again. "Looks like we'll have to do this the old-fashioned way." He sped through the tunnel, dodging through the other people in the gloom, and finally caught a distant glimpse of the light green shirt and blue bags. "Back on them, they just turned west 30 meters in front of me, past the cathedral."_

"_Right. Team two, start moving north to flank them," said Soap. "Team three, keep heading southwest. Have you crossed the canal, over?"_

"_Roger that, affirmative," replied Scarecrow._

_Hurrying, Price reached the corner...and stared into a winding maze of narrow streets, creamy stucco walls and red rooftops. They were nowhere in sight. He dashed down a small side street and had a look around – nothing. And currently, no eyes in the sky to pick their trail back up. He clenched his jaw in frustration. What had started out so well was now circling the drain. He headed sideways again for another look. Nothing._

"_Teams two and three - does anyone have a visual yet, over?" said Soap._

"_Negative," was Archer's brief reply._

"_That's a negative," said Ozone._

"_What about you, Fox One?"_

"_Negative," huffed Royce. The police fiasco had forced him to take the long way around._

"_Stand by - the camera feed's back." A long pause. "I see them," said Ghost, the excitement in his voice immediately dissolving back into outrage. "Fuck it! I've lost it again – what the hell is 'appening here? Anyway, Fox Two – if you hurry two blocks to your west and proceed north, they should cross directly in front of you, out." _

_Price jogged down the two blocks as directed and slowed his pace as he moved upward, anticipating the Russians' arrival. As promised, there they were, a block in front of him. He hung back, his presence becoming more conspicuous in the quieter side streets. _

_He edged around a row of parked cars, watching them move down a somewhat narrow alley which contained the rear entrances of some shops. The nearest one was receiving a delivery. It was being unloaded by a small handful of men, none of whom were paying the slightest attention to anything but their current task._

_The alley was full of pallets and handtrucks laden with boxes. It further narrowed at the end as it passed between two closer buildings, not unlike a funnel. Makarov and Lev passed by the clutter and into the long, narrow alleyway. _

"_Fox Two, do you see them?" _

_Price keyed his mic, indicating an affirmative but necessarily silent response._

"_...can we take them?"_

_Price keyed his mic again. _

_Time to spring the trap. The satisfaction in MacTavish's voice was undisguised. "All teams move in – nice and easy."_

_The shadows in the alley deepened as he passed the truck. Price could feel his flesh crawling, __his senses sharpening into a state of hyper-alertness.__ Frowning, he glanced over his shoulder. The delivery men were nowhere to be seen, though he could hear their voices in the rear doorway of the shop, now hidden from view. No one else was present. Except for the one, there were no signs of life at any of the other entrances. There were no doors or windows immediately near him; the narrow part of the alley had none, it was hemmed in by solid walls on either side. Nothing except the odd pile of litter and a few puddles. _

_Just beyond the edge of the wall, he watched the retreating backs of the two men. They chatted casually as they walked down the dim, narrow passage, oblivious to their peril, outlined by the bright shaft of light that signified the end of it. Price found the image strangely appropriate. _

_He ducked behind a dumpster, drawing his M1911 and screwing on the suppressor with efficient, practiced movements. He released the safety catch. The hammer was cocked, a round already in the chamber. Opportunity was knocking – he could do this; he could quickly move in, slot them both and disappear around the corner, mission accomplished. A mad dog put down at last, and not a tear would be shed for either one of them._

_Years of experience and training set in to calm the quickening of his pulse, tempering the familiar thrill of the hunt with cold resolve. The gun at his side, he began to stalk after them. The sound of his steps on the wet cobblestones was masked by the steady rattle of water dripping into a downspout. The light reflected in the puddles ahead rippled with the light drizzle that had just begun to fall._

_He hadn't much time. They could be wearing body armor. He needed __to get close enough__ to deliver headshots to each man, and he couldn't afford to miss. Striding forward to close the distance, he raised his weapon. Took a deep breath of cool, damp air. A nearby car alarm began to shriek. With his sights trained on Makarov, he rested his finger on the trigger. Started to squeeze. __**Game over.**_

_He froze – the two had stopped walking. _

_Makarov turned to look at him. Except, the man wasn't Makarov. The man __**smiled.**_

_The moment of horrified realization __at his error__, the feeling of the ground about to open up and swallow him whole, lasted only a heartbeat. He tensed, about to whirl around to face the __sudden presence behind hi__m__, but never made it. __With __a loud snap, a jolt of electricity sent a firestorm of pain through his body, which went rigid, then crumpled. His pistol clattered to the ground._

_Multiple hands grabbed him, tearing at his clothing, rummaging through his pockets. A man's smirking face loomed __directly__ in front of his own. There were grunts and the stink of old cigarette smoke mingled with cheap aftershave and stale sweat. Then, a wrenching sound and the acrid smell of the tape being wrapped around his mouth. _

_Hearing the scuffle, MacTavish was shouting in his ear. "Fox Two, what's happening – do you read?" His voice was coming in gusts – he was racing downstairs. "Talk to me Price! Pri-" _

_Soap's voice was ripped away as they located his mic and transmitter. A hood was yanked down over his head. He heard the crunch of breaking plastic. Quickly coming to himself, Price began to lash out at his attackers._

_T__hey held his arms fast, so he windmilled his legs, kicking savagely at them. He heard thumping and rattling around him as he struggled. He threw his weight around, trying to knock them off balance. They were all bumping into boxes, sharp edges and what felt like a rubbish bin, showering them with paper and other debris. __He was rewarded by a crash, a yelp of pain and what sounded like cursing as he successfully kicked away one of his assailants. _

_Arms were trying to wrap themselves around his thighs. Right, left, right – he pumped his feet like pistons, twisting free from their grasp and making hard, satisfying contact with his bootheel. There was a __**whoof **__of someone who'd just had the wind kicked out of him. More angry shouts; other voices shushin__g, urge__nt._

_He kept throwing his weight forward, down and side to side, trying to press the advantage. But he felt an arm tighten around his neck in a chokehold and more arms grab his legs as he was pulled into doorway, and the entire group tumbled into a heap onto the dusty floor. _

_B__eneath the gag he roared like an animal – heart hammering, mind racing, every instinct screaming to escape. He couldn't move; they were sitting on him, holding his body and limbs to the floor like a vise. A __chill of icy fear washed through him when__ he felt the sting of a needle. _

_**No!**_

_His chest heaved and his muscles strained as he put forth another fierce effort to get them off of him. What felt like someone's knees ground into him harder, pinning him even more painfully. He panted through his nostrils like a maddened bull, sucking the musty fabric against his face to smother him further as he fought for __air__, bringing his rising panic to a crescendo._

_It was suddenly hard to think – he shook his head, or at least imagined that he did, in an effort to clear the thick fog settling upon his senses. He felt himself blinking to stop his eyes from rolling upward. The floor felt like it was slowly rising and tilting beneath him, as if he were at sea._

_His muffled cries faltered into silence as his breathing slowed. He heard them talking amongst themselves. __Their voices sounded strange, distorted, echoing from far away. The words unknown, yet strangely familiar. Russian. _

_Seeking payback for Zakhaev, they had finally come to collect._

_**They got me!**_

_The brief burst of adrenalin wasn't nearly enough, not even close._

_As the drug raced through him, he felt his struggles weakening, t__he painful crush of bodies on him fading into numbness. Beneath the hood, his eyelids drooped._

_**Can't let them do this... Think - stay awake...stay...**_

_His head lolled uncontrollably as he __felt them hauling him up from the floor, holding him underneath his arms, his hands now tied behind his back. He was dimly aware of the toes of his boots skipping and bumping along the floor as they dragged him. _

_**No...stop...**_

_His awareness further dwindled to brief sensations: the sound of an idling engine. The smell of exhaust. _

_**No...**_

_A thump as he hit the floor again._

_A door slammed. The floor hummed. He felt movement...then he felt nothing at all._

* * *

MacTavish's face was a picture of anguish and regret.

"We got there as fast as we could – Ozone and Scarecrow were damn near run down by a lorry on their way to the alley. We found bins and boxes strewn all over. Royce found your broken transmitter in a puddle, and as I walked toward him, I kicked something lying in the rubbish. It was your pistol."

"There was nothing you could have done, Soap," said Price gently. "It was a setup, of course, and now we know who it was. My head as payment for Makarov's cooperation." His eyes drifted away with his thoughts as his gaze drew inward. "We were all just pawns on the chessboard."

"Shepherd. I wish he were still alive -" Price looked up at him. "- so I could kill him again, and take my time with it."

Price sighed and shook his head. "Hell might not be big enough for both him and Zakhaev, on top of all the other bastards we sent there. They'd better be saving Makarov a parking spot." That got a smile out of Soap, breaking the tension.

Soap's breathing had slowed, and although he had settled into his pillows a bit, Price noticed that his expression was still tight with discomfort. Offering distraction, he went on with his story...


	7. Threshold

**_LEGAL DISCLAIMER: _**___MacTavish, Price, Nikolai, Kamarov and the other characters you'll recognize from Call of Duty 4:Modern Warfare and Modern Warfare 2 are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision – not mine. A big thank you to everyone who brought those games and characters to us, and for letting me take them on a joyride._

**_WARNING:_**___** *This chapter contains scenes of torture**____*****_

**_A/N:_**___ I don't quite know what to say about this one, except that this short chapter was pretty intense to write. I did some research on the subject, of course, and learned more than I ever wanted to know. :-\_

___I'm not a Russian speaker, so I'm at the mercy of Google translate. Apologies for any mistakes.  
_

___Huge thanks to **Dprotaganist**, **Sassy Satsuma**, **Ordnance**, **gazlover12**, **VerityA**, **midnight13731**, **Dunedain789**, **Leen141**, **greenyfox** and **FireDragon218** for your wonderful support. Your reviews really brighten my day! Glad you enjoyed the ride through Prague. And if you felt a bit sorry for Price before, ____**gazlover12, **____well...let's just say that this won't be one of his better days._

___As always, a major shoutout to my bestest beta, ____**Sassy Satsuma.**____ :-) We are cut from the same picky cloth!_

___In the last chapter, Price began telling Soap about his capture by the Russian Ultranationalists. Now his story continues..._

* * *

_Right after he awoke in the cold, stinking gulag, Price found himself being worked over by professionals._

_A sheet of icy water slammed into his face – he gasped, ripped back to cruel consciousness. It poured down his naked chest and pooled around his bare feet. Shivering violently, __his breath billowing clouds of freezing mist__, he grunted at the stout slap in the face that followed; droplets of water from his hair sprayed the wall. Plasticuffs bit __into his wrists behind him._

_He didn't remember much of what happened after that. But he remembered the room. _

_The rusty bars, the stone scratched and scrawled with centuries of graffiti in multiple languages. The high arched ceiling that served to amplify the noise below. __The stains streaking the walls. A chair in the middle. Nearby tables handy for various tools and other implements. Other chairs nearby for the audience. The dank smell was a mixture of corroded metal, damp stone, piss, old blood and fear._

_The men holding him were Spetsnaz. The skill they demonstrated told him as much. These weren't interrogations so much as a running commentary of how they didn't appreciate his role in the maiming and eventual death of Imran Zakhaev. This room was__ just __the setting for their particular brand of brutality._

_With alarming frequency, he would be dragged from that room and tossed in a exhausted, quivering heap on the cold stone floor of his cell. They asked him a few questions in English, but barely seemed to know it themselv__es. T__hey had questions printed on cards, and one man had them on a silk handkerchief. What little Russian Price did understand he wasn't going to admit to. However, e__xtracting information never appeared to be their goal; it was almost done as a half-hearted afterthought or a sideshow for the main event._

_They didn't take it as far as inflicting major damage. They were like a well-fed cat after a mouse, toying with him but not breaking him. They would let him recover just enough to be fit for further torture, and fed him just enough to leave him gaunt without truly starving him. In his more lucid moments, he wondered what they were saving him for. _

_He had tried to keep track of the days by observing the guards' shifts, for he hadn't seen daylight since Prague. Kept in an isolated cell far from other inmates, he had hungrily devoured every detail, at first: who was working, when they worked, who__m t__hey spoke to. Their weapons, equipment and rank. Every sight, sound and smell was catalogued. __However, the forced sleep deprivation soon put a stop to that. _

_He paced his cell when he was able, counted, recited long-forgotten passages. He reached back into his memories of Selection and training in Hereford, when they'd been visited by former POWs __who'd shared their__ stories. But for all that he did to prevent it, the thin ice of hope protecting his __sanity was beginning to fracture; the spreading cracks allowing dark fantasies of despair and death to bubble and seep to the surface._

_The days, and weeks, began to blend into one another. But there was one particular day that stood out, one he would clearly remember...and try__ so desperately to forget._

* * *

_The room again. Blindfolded, stripped, hands and feet bound to the chair. Adrenalin surging, chest heaving in anticipation of what was to come._

_Guards stepped up on either side of him. The chair was tilted backwards. Grabbing his hair, they jerked his head back and __pulled the blindfold taut. Water poured down on the cl__oth over his face in a constant stream. The saturated cloth molded itself over his nose and mouth, preventing him from taking a breath and intr__oducing an occasional drip up his nose and down the back of his throat._

_He was effectively being strangled. Corded muscles rippled and bulged under goose-pimpled skin; his hands clawed the empty air behind him as he strained against his bonds. His pulse thundered in his ears, setting the pace for the frantic thought screaming through his mind:_

_**Can'tBreatheCan'tBreatheCan'tBreatheCan't –**_

_He tried to pull his head aside, out of the flow. Fingers entwined in his hair kept his head exactly where it was. He knew this game, but it didn't help him. His treacherous body was reacting in the only way it knew how: by clamping his throat shut, causing him to gag uncontrollably. His heart was beating dangerously fast now, and soon it would give out altogether. Every nerve ending was raw and alive with the __primal terror__ of asphyxiation; the chair creaked as he pulled at the restraints with all of his strength, the bindings at his wrists and ankles sawing bloody tracks into his flesh._

_**ThisisitI'mgoingtodieI'mgoingtodieI'mgoingtodie –**_

_The flow stopped, and the dripping wet fabric was peeled up just enough to allow him to breathe again. He slumped in the chair like a rag doll, wheezing and retching._

_They started again. Stopped. Started. Stopped...started... His head swam, and his heart felt like it would burst from his chest. He felt himself begin to float away. _

"_**Eto dostatochno." **_

_The world righted itself as the chair legs and his bare feet hit the floor again._

_He sat for a while, gulping deep coughing lungfuls of air, trying to quiet his pounding heart. __ His head dangled limply to one side, water dripping from his hair, his bound hands behind the chair the only thing keeping his exhausted body upright. He drifted for a while, halfway into the oblivion that he craved. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he could hear the Russians moving around him and talking among themselves. They pulled the soaked cloth from his face._

_To his horror, his captors were now wearing rubber boots, aprons, and heavy rubber gloves. And he was now soaking wet. That could only mean one thing. A thrill of fear surged through him, his pulse and breathing quickening once again._

_His teeth clenched in a gurgling cry as the electric current shot through him. His body arched and shook in pulsating waves of agony. __He could both hear and feel the sizzling hum from whatever it was that they were using. It stopped and he sagged, barely conscious now, in the chair. Now free of the electrically-induced paralysis, he still couldn't catch his breath. He could feel his heart flopping irregularly, like a fish out of water, a dull ache in his chest sharpening into burning pain. He jerked rigidly upright as they began once more.__The edges of his vision darkened, and then he felt himself falling backward down a deep dark well, into nothingness._

_He heard something, from far away, like insistent knocking on a giant door. A slow, heavy, purposeful pounding: __**boom...boom.**_

_The pounding got faster and lighter now. He felt like someone was pushing him in his chest, repeatedly shoving him backwards from something, trying to block his way. He heard angry voices shouting in the distance, but he couldn't understand them. _

_He drew in a sudden, long, deep breath, like a diver emerging from the water's surface. He was racked with a fit of coughing. There was a sudden push at his shou__lder; a cold hard surface r__olled against the side of his face as his body convulsed, releasing a hot flood of vomit. Warmth bloomed around his outstretched arm and the back of his limp hand. Rough fingers fishhooked into his mouth to sweep out any remains, and he was released to flop bonelessly onto his back, a brief starburst in the darkness as the back of his head struck the floor. The voices got louder, and figures swam around him in a gray haze. Dimly, he heard a voice he hadn't heard before:_

"_Clean him up."_

* * *

_When Price opened his eyes, he__ was lying on a cot, under a heavy blanket. A portable heater glowed nearby. A Russian soldier was leaning over him. In his thirties, he was tall and thin with short blond hair, gray eyes and sharp angular features._

"_Feeling better?" he asked, his face impassive, not truly concerned one way or the other. _

_Price answered him with a dull stare._

"_Of course you are." __This was the same voice he'd heard before. __ The man picked up the nylon duffel bag next to him and slung it over his shoulder – medical supplies peeked through the half-open zipper. "Get dressed. We're moving you downstairs." He strode out of the room. The metal door slammed shut with a __**clang.**_

_Price sat up, his body heavy. He noticed a tiny puncture wound in the crook of his arm, and rubbed it curiously. He didn't remember that, or being brought here. __Scrubbing a hand through the thick stubble on his face, he turned to the bundle of clothing on the cot next to his. It was a set of prisoners' wear: denim trousers and jacket with an inmate number on it,__ a plain shirt, canvas shoes, and a black watch cap. He put these on, and didn't wait long before the man and two guards came to collect him. _


	8. Inquisitor

**_LEGAL DISCLAIMER: _**___MacTavish, Price, Nikolai, Kamarov and the other characters you'll recognize from Call of Duty 4:Modern Warfare and Modern Warfare 2 are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision – not mine. A big thank you to everyone who brought those games and characters to us, and for letting me take them on a joyride._

**_WARNING:_**_** Strong profanity, **____**scenes of torture**____._

___**A/N:**____ Thanks so much to everyone who favorited this, and to ____**Sassy Satsuma, VerityA, Ordnance **____and ____**Dibs on money **____for your awesome reviews. It's very exciting to see how many people are reading, and I would love to hear from more of you *hint, hint* ;-) Your feedback lets me know that I met some of my goals with that chapter, the most important of which was not to wander into the territory of torture porn, something that I definitely don't care for._

___In my version of events, Price does not spend five years in a Russian prison, simply because he wouldn't look half as healthy afterward if he had. If you're curious about such things, and about what the deal is with the some of the tattoos seen in the game (they are never explained), there is a documentary on the subject called ____**The Mark of Cain. **____The accompanying book was a strong influence on the film ____**Eastern Promises**__. ____It's available on Netflix and on YouTube as "Russian Prison Documentary." Just FYI, it's over ten years old, and some of its practices were already falling by the wayside at the time._

___I'm most grateful for my beta ____**Sassy Satsuma's **____invaluable help with the plotting, scheming and handwringing, not to mention the assistance with the British names of tools and household items ('boxcutter' – say it with me now :P) You keep the fun in what can at times be an exhausting process!_

___So was the man at the end of the last chapter Price's savior? Or is he something else entirely?_

* * *

_T__he blond man sat at the desk in what appeared to be some sort of office, a thick folder and a steaming cup of tea in front of him. He had introduced himself as __**Grach**__. Like everywhere else in this frigid hellhole, the room was dimly lit, save for a beam of sickly gray light that filtered through a small barred window near the high ceiling. This only served to darken the hollows and sharpen the planes of an already severe face. He opened the folder and began leafing through the contents. Price sat before him in a gray steel armchair, flanked by three guards._

"_C__aptain John Price. Born and raised in London. I went to school there, you know – I studied medicine at St George's." He added this aside as if he were chatting with an old friend, and continued with Price's __**curriculum vitae**__: "Formerly of the British Army, formerly of 22__nd__ SAS. The family business just wasn't for you, you had to be the soldier. Dear old Dad wasn't too happy, was he? But that's okay. You have to love what you do, right?" His face finally showed some signs of animation, with a lift of his eyebrows and a quirk of his mouth. "I know I do." This got a few sideways glances from the others. He flipped the folder shut and rose to slowly walk toward him._

"_Northern Ireland...the Balkans, Lebanon..." He paused for emphasis, eyebrows raised. "...the Ukraine." He stood next to him, shaking his head. "You fought your way out of some tough places, but even you couldn't escape old age. __**Tsk**__." He smiled and ran his fingers through Price's thinning hair._

_He took hold of Price's jaw and twisted his head up to look at him. He thumbed down one of his lower eyelids with the casual disregard usually reserved for livestock. "Color's back, vital signs are good..." He released him and returned to his teacup. "Can't have you checking out early, can we?" He leaned up against the desk, long legs stretched out in front of him. He took a sip of tea, his sharp Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed._

"_They sent me to look after you, and a good thing, too. The boys...they can get carried away sometimes," he said with a rueful shrug. There were a few low chuckles from the sidelines, which were silenced by a quick glance. He turned away to step toward a table at one side of the room, surveying its contents with mild interest. "In medical school, I learned to truly appreciate what a fascinating machine the human body is. I never did graduate, though – I could never quite master the part about doing no harm. Still," he continued as he picked up a pair of pliers and studied the tips closely, frowning, then __recoiling__ in disgust. "...the training really comes in handy sometimes." He set them back down._

_Price's eyes darted sideways under his lowered eyelids, stealing a look at the other items on the table. A hammer. A set of wire cutters. __A utility knife. __A small propane torch. An electric drill. A circular saw. A large rasp – a Russian favorite, for filing down teeth. Clear plastic sheeting, heavy-duty bin liners, some folded rubber aprons and a box of disposable gloves. __ There was a tray of medical supplies there too: a red plastic needle container, military 'CAT' tourniquets, IV sets, suture kits. But not for healing – for prolonging the inevitable, and possibly worse. Packets of needles and syringes in various sizes, and vials of drugs whose purpose he could only guess. His heart was pounding._

"_Now, John," Tilting his head in mock hurt, Grach spoke to him as if he were admonishing a naughty schoolboy. "What do you take me for?" _

_Setting his teacup down, he appr__oached Price's chair. He nodded and two of the guards leaned on his wrists, pinning them. The largest man came up behind him and planted a meaty pair of hands on his shoulders. Price's breathing automatically quickened; his body was betraying him again. __He__ noticed the rings tattooed on one man's knuckles, causing an idle thought to fly to his defense: __**the only difference between the guards and the criminals is a set of keys.**__ Grach was standing directly in front of him now. He squatted to stare him right in the face – he was almost close enough to kiss him. His voice was soft, his tone calm and reasonable. Under other circumstances, it might have been reassuring._

"_All that's really not necessary, you know. With the right knowledge and skill, it doesn't take much to bring a man to his knees."_

_H__e took hold of Price's little finger and bent it backward, squeezing the nail bed hard. __H__owls of pain shattered the silence.__ Just as he thought the bone would snap, Grach released him, leaving him shaking. __He shrugged. "See what I mean?"_

"_You've been with us for some time now. But I trust you have not been too...damaged." He thrust himself up from the floor, his voice growing louder. "You're not a stupid man, y__ou know I didn't attend to you out of kindness. __So you must be wondering: what are they waiting for?__"_

_Fighting to calm himself,__ Price kept his face an expressionless mask. _

"_The last of Bravo__ Team.__ The best saved for last. And we are saving you, John Price," he said, wagging a finger at him. "We're going to have a party," he paused, his thin face twisting into an ugly sneer. "...and you're the guest of honor."_

_Price focused on keeping his eyes downward, __trying to slow his breathing. __ He couldn't quiet his mind completely though: __**Nice speech, you twat. A regular Bond villain, this one**__._

"_An eye for an eye." __He slowly circled the chair, looking Price up and down. "Why not an arm for an arm? I'm sure Makarov would agree," he nodded in the direction of the table full of tools. " – and it could definitely be arranged. He's busy at the moment, but he'll be here soon enough. He's simply __**dying**__ to meet you. I'm sure you're dying to meet him." He snickered at his own joke, and some of the men risked quiet laughter, which went unchecked._

"_Oh, your mind is racing now. Why would Makarov, of all people, go anywhere near a prison? You can't argue that he belongs in one." He chuckled again. "So why would he come willingly, and without fear? You'd be surprised at just how many people see things his way, including the men guarding this fortress. Makarov has nothing worry about – unlike you."_

_All of the guards were wearing cold, satisfied smiles now. One of them shifted his hold on Price's wrist, allowing Grach access to his forearm. He paused for a moment to take in the sight of Price's missing fingernails and the dark scabbed bruising around his wrists. Grach winced, hissing in false sympathy. _

"_Looks like things got off to a rough start. __They went too far.__ But I'm here now, to make sure it won't happen again." He slid his hand upward along the top of Price's forearm until he found just the right spot. The cold gray eyes bored into him. "I'll be with you – every step of the way." He ground his thumb into the pressure point. Price grunted as __pain__ streaked though the nerves of his arm._

"_His __**arm**__, Price? __**Nice**__ shooting," he smirked. "Trigger finger got too itchy? What a disappointing moment for your mentor. All that time and effort wasted." _

_The pain shooting down his arm was like white fire. Price could feel the cold sweat beading on his forehead, his ragged breaths hissing between clenched teeth._

"_He was something, wasn't he? Tough old man, MacMillian. Even crippled, he was still hard as nails." This time, the smile was one of grudging admiration. "I heard he put up quite a fight."_

_**I fucking knew it.**_

_He'd never forget that particular knock at the door. When the MI5 agents had sat him down, he had felt like he was outside of himself, watching the man at the table stare numbly at the photographs being slid in front of him. Watching his own stunned face as they played the__ police__ video: Captain MacMillian, lying on his kitchen floor in Rowardennan. The room's contents smashed and scattered everywhere. Flashbulbs flickering over the glistening carnage, unseeing eyes staring at his own blood drying on the tile. The investigation had gone nowhere. Possible payback for old business in Northern Ireland, they'd said. But he'd known better._

_A bead of sweat dribbled down the side of his face. Hot sparks were shooting through his fingertips. His hand was going numb. As he panted through it, Price couldn't stop the growl from rising in his throat. _

"_Fff...ffuuu...fuuhh..." Grach smirked and released him._

"_The SAS are second only to Spetsnaz. They have my respect. But you know what? In the end, they're just like everybody else. It doesn't matter who you are – when you show a man his own guts, the reaction is much the same." Another smiling tilt of the head. "They told me he screamed like a __**suka**__." _

_Price's jaw muscles were quivering. However, the bastard had already turned his back on him._

_Grach strolled around the room, taking long lazy strides, apparently lost in thought. "You know, the cold here lends itself well to preservation..." He turned to face him. "I'm thinking that what's left of you could be kept around long enough to show MacTavish, once we catch up to him – and we will."_

_He was trembling now, the rage boiling upward. He burned with the thought of having his hands free, and of just how quickly and violently he could wipe that smirk off his face. _

_**You...fucking...CU-**_

_Grach was suddenly right back in his face, savoring his response. He cocked an eyebrow. "Ah. Good to see you're still in there."_

_Price cursed his own foolishess. Despite his training, he'd let himself get reeled right in. Even worse, he knew this was no idle threat._

_Grach just stared at him. The guards shifted uncomfortably. _

_Price focused on the center of his forehead, avoiding those eyes, going back to what he'd been taught: be the gray man, fade into the background. He concentrated on emptying his mind, ignoring his swirling emotions. He'd already fucked up badly. He'd given Grach exactly what he was looking for._

_Grach's voice was a low whisper. "So quiet...penny for your thoughts?" Price kept staring at his chosen focal point, nostrils flaring and shoulders still heaving, but silent. Grach's eyebrows shot up again. "No?" He rolled his eyes. "Let me guess – you 'cannot answer that question'." He shrugged. "No problem." He stood up, aiming his smile at the guards now._

_They leaned on his shoulders and wrists with their full body weight, solidly pinning him to the chair._

_Grach grabbed a handful of pencils from the holder on the desktop. He approached Price and began to slide a pencil between each of his fingers. A chill ran down Price's spine._

_**Pencils? What the hell -**_

_Squatting next to him, Grach slipped his own cool, dry palm under Price's, straightening the pencils between his fingers. He wrapped his long fingers around Price's hand, as if for a handshake. "There's no need for the silent treatment. After all, we're going to spend so much 'quality time' together," he said softly. He gave it a gentle squeeze._

_The pain, and disbelief, took Price's breath away. He shuddered,__ gasping._

_While still loosely clasping Price's hand, Grach curved the fingers of his other hand around to grip Price's shoulder. He leaned in close enough for Price to feel his hot breath on the side of his face. "You're really going to get to know me. You're really going to get to know yourself." __Grach's face wore a small, almost wistful smile. "And I think you're going to find that you're really not so different...from anybody else." He gripped Price's hand again, suddenly and savagely._

_Price was falling down the dark well again. He heard a man screaming…_

* * *

He knew this had to be difficult to listen to, and it wasn't much easier to say.

MacTavish had been listening in silent, rapt attention. Aside from his reactions, Price had noticed the distress creeping into his face as well. His brow furrowed as he frowned, studying him.

"Soap...when was the last time you were given something for pain?"

Before he had finished asking, Misha reappeared with a syringe.

"It's been too long, I'm afraid. This should make you more comfortable for a while," he said, injecting the contents into Soap's IV port. "But we're soon going to have to switch to something that doesn't make you so sleepy – you need to be moving around more."

"I know, I know...but I'll take it while I can get it."

Price chuckled knowingly. "Smart man."

"You should be feeling better in a few minutes," the doctor reassured him. He checked the IV, the plastic roll clamp rattling as he followed the tubing down to the injection site in the back of Soap's hand. He grunted his approval and departed.

The air again grew heavy with the lingering silence. Soap's serious expression returned. "I'm sorry," he murmured, clearly unsure of what else to say.

Price leveled his gaze at him. "Don't be. You're the reason I'm still here."

Taking a deep breath, he continued with his tale...


	9. The Gulag

**_LEGAL DISCLAIMER: _**___MacTavish, Price, Nikolai, Kamarov and the other characters you'll recognize from Call of Duty 4:Modern Warfare and Modern Warfare 2 are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision – not mine. A big thank you to everyone who brought those games and characters to us, and for letting me take them on a joyride._

**_WARNING:_**_ **____**This chapter is rated M** for graphic violence and multilingual profanity.**_

_**A/N:**__ First and foremost, I must thank my son for all of his help with the next-to-last scene. I'm afraid I know nothing about the subject matter, so I consulted an SME. ;-) This chapter is dedicated to him – it wouldn't have been the same without his expertise. It was so much fun discussing all the logistics!_

_Secondly, *__**huge* **__hugs to my awesome beta, __**Sassy Satsuma**__, whose participation influences both the story and the writer! Thank you so much for your patience and encouragement. I struggled with this one for a while, and I so appreciate your time with this long chapter. I took a cue from you and put on the headphones – Tool's "10,000 Days", Rammstein's "Ich Will" and Prong's "For Dear Life" helped me get out of my funk and get it done ;-) As for your review – your part is greater than you know, and I'm really happy that you were able to notice that dialogue in the middle of all the dark and heavy stuff going on. :-)_

_**Ordnance – **__Thanks so much! Guess which books and movies? ;-) I was thinking of you when I wrote some of those parts. Hopefully you won't be disappointed in what happens to our new 'friend'. :P _

_BTW, I'm really looking forward to the next chapter of __**Modern Warfare: Revolution.**_

_**Mixedtapes**_** –** _That is so awesome, thank you! It makes total sense, and is a huge compliment. And no worries – one MUST have priorities! :P_

_I must apologize in advance for any Russian mistakes, although in this chapter I should probably just apologize for my Russian altogether! But seriously, I don't speak the language._

_This will be the last one for a while, as this is the last of the pre-written material, and the next story arc must be developed from scratch. Time for me to dive back into some research. Thanks so much for reading, and as always, I really enjoy hearing from you. :-)_

* * *

_Early morning. The same hard mattress, the same rough musty-smelling blanket, the same dim cell. As always, he kept his eyes shut in the quiet moments before the first shift came to wake him up; though his body was imprisoned in this small space, his drowsy mind was still yet free to roam the fields of his subconscious. But today was different. He felt rested, and utterly calm. He finally understood it now: the true liberation that comes with having nothing left to lose. _

_He didn't know how long he'd been here; his perception of time had been lost in the maelstrom of pain, fear, exhaustion and humiliation. His full beard had returned, he'd been here long enough for that at least. No one was coming. __No one even knew where he was. __The Ultranationalists had him, and there was only one way he'd be leaving this place._

_Being prepared to die was part of being who he was. However,__ his story was now about to end in an act of vengeance over the events of five years ago, by a man he'd never even met. _

_He'd seen the newspaper article and had dismissed Makarov's words as a rant – until MacMillian's body was discovered by his wife. __His men had been watching MacMillian's house near Loch Lomond, probably for weeks, and had waited for her to leave.__ How would they __come after__ MacTavish? Having spent much of his childhood in the council estates of Glasgow, Soap had developed a set of eyes in the back of his head at an early age. Would it be enough? The 141 would keep him deployed for a long time. But when things settled down and he returned home to Elgin, then what?_

_He w__as powerless to do anything now, except trust in MacTavish's own considerable abilities. As for himself, h__e would probably wind up in a shallow grave, or in an incinerator, and no one would ever know of his fate. They might just dump him into the sea. As for Grach's threat to preserve his remains, he couldn't dismiss that out of hand. At first he'd pushed the thought out of his mind, but then thought better of it. The simmering anger was starting its cancerous creep, eroding his newfound serenity. He welcomed it like an old friend. He needed it now, to fuel his resolve for what needed to be done._

_Lately they'd left him alone for the most part. He'd even received additional food and regained some of the weight he'd lost. He wasn't a fool, this wasn't a hopeful sign. It was merely Grach fulfilling his stated purpose. The healthier he was, the longer they could draw things out. He'd had more than enough time to imagine what that might entail. They'd kept it clean up to this point, but that would soon change. __What was on the table in the office said it all. W__ith Makarov's arrival, t__hey'd strap him down, glove up and get to work. Grach would be there beside him – to whisper in his ear, to show him all his skill and inventiveness, and to keep him alive. Nothing would be off the menu, and the end would be a long time in coming. They would carve him up, body and mind, piece by piece. _

_He still had a choice. He might be damned already, but he wasn't about to die on his knees for the pleasure of Zakhaev's lapdog. _

_His cell was too well-monitored, offering neither the time nor the means to complete this final __mission__. It had to be during a transfer._

_Somewhere in the prison, in someone's sidearm or rifle, was a bullet that belonged to him. Finding it was a matter of opportunity and timing. They had made the mistake of letting him know of his temporary value. So they wouldn't try to kill him outright, not at first, which meant two things: he'd have to go big, and he might have the chance to take at least one of them with him._

_He dearly hoped it would be that smug fucking Grach. _

_He inhaled deeply, blinking open his eyes. The mingled stink of moldy basement, urine and sewer gas now seemed sweet somehow, knowing each breath was closer to being his last. He lay on his back, his gaze slowly traveling the graffiti's path up to the ceiling, ticking off the scrawled inventory of anguish, boredom and profanity. He felt something, then he heard it: the faraway thump of helicopter rotors. There was a rustle beside him. A rat was trundling along the base of the cell wall, bent on investigating a discarded bread crust. _

_Thunder boomed in the distance. The rat scurried back into his hole. Lights flickered. _

_**Boom.**__ Closer this time. The normal background noise - the shouts, buzzers, the slamming doors – had fallen silent. _

_**That wasn't thunder.**__ He sat up._

_**BOOM.**__ Dust spilled down in powdery trails from the ceiling._

_A__ncient loudspeakers squealed to life, squawking fuzzy Russian that echoed up through the cell block's central atrium. The entire block then erupted into a bubbling cauldron of noise as every single man present began to shout at once. __**BOOM.**__ The normal sounds resumed and doubled. Alarms began to go off. Price rushed to the cell door, gripping the bars as he watched the chaos erupt._

_**BOOM.**__ Hunks of masonry began to plummet down into the atrium, resulting in frantic yelling and the sounds of stone smashing to pieces on the floor four stories below._

_Boots pounded in nearby hallways; Ultranationalist __soldiers __were rushing to the central cages of the cellblock in a mad grab for weapons from the armory. A hellish chatter of countless guns being checked, loaded and cocked roared up the vast well of the atrium. Men boiled down the steel __walkways,__ bristling with rifles, shotguns, riot shields and vicious intent. He stepped back from the door as they thundered past him. Price raised an arm and turned away from the blinding sweep of the searchlight. Along with his own, three additional shadows briefly leapt across the back wall. He turned back to see Grach, a sidearm strapped to his thigh, along with two guards. One was the huge red-haired man who had held him down in the chair. The other was one he'd not seen before; a dark-haired man with pale blue eyes. They were furious._

"_**L**__**itsom k'stene -"**__ the dark-haired guard began, but Grach cut him off. _

"_Assume the position, Price," he snapped._

_Price obeyed, facing the wall and spreading his arms and legs, hands pressed up against the low curved stone ceiling. The door squealed open to admit the guards, who cuffed and shackled him. __It__ was a good thing that they couldn't see the look in his eyes, just before he averted his gaze to the floor, like a model prisoner._

_**Time to get into character.**_

* * *

_The shackles didn't last long. As he shuffled along, chains jangling, it was readily apparent that the group wanted him transferred in a hurry. He hadn't meant to trip...not really. They were not amused, __and let him know - using a rifle butt. __ White light and pain burst in his skull as the ground rushed up to meet him. As he lay facedown on the filthy __floor__, they stood over him, arguing in Russian. Warm blood trickled down his scalp._

"_Don't __act __stupid, Price," said Grach. __ "And this from someone who's being rescued from an attack. So ungrateful." At a word from him, and to Price's surprise, the shackles were removed. It seemed a small victory, until his bound hands were yanked up behind him. _

_**Fuck!**__ He tried to get his knees up under him. A boot stomped into the small of his back, crushing him back down. A gloved hand splayed across his face, pressing his head to the floor. He grunted and writhed in pain as they continued to pull his hands upward at an unnatural, but well-practiced, angle.__ He felt like he would snap in half._

_The hated voice was in his ear. "You remember this, don't you? Now...just in case you're thinking of doing anything rash..." __A cold gun muzzle pressed into his right palm. Price froze. "There are such things as nonlethal gunshot wounds. Do I need to give you a reminder, so that you don't give us any more trouble?" Price panted, eyes screwed shut against the flaring pain of old injuries, the dirt and grit of the floor biting into the skin of his cheek. If they fired, he'd never use that hand again – and never get his chance. He would be utterly theirs until the end. "There are also such things as surgery without anesthesia. __**Bolshoi chelovek**__ here will be happy to hold you down while I sew you up." A soft chuckle. "There will still be more than enough of you left for Makarov to enjoy." He gritted his teeth, waiting for the blast. _

_They released him into a shuddering heap. Price gave a heavy, shaky exhale as hands hooked under his shoulders and hauled him to his feet, bringing him face-to-face with Grach. "We understand each other now, yes?" Eyes downcast, wincing and trying to collect himself, Price __offered__ a barely perceptible nod. "Good." Grach eyed the guards and jerked his head in the direction of the hallway. __**"D**__**avaĭ."**__ They then swept up alongside him and frog-marched him down a series of rusty dark stairwells, deep into the bowels of the prison._

_They entered an area that was clearly abandoned. It was a hallway with small cells, most of the doors left ajar. The feeble illumination behind them revealed only the beginning; the rest of it was pitch black. The smaller guard tried the switch on the wall, without results. Both men hit the switches on their rifles; tac lights and red lasers stabbed through the misty darkness. A hand gripped Price's shoulder, __urging him forward. __Price took a few slow steps, sidestepping some rubbish.__ He paused as a pair of glowing eyes flashed ahead of them, and was gone with a soft patter – more rats. _

_Big Man grabbed the back of his jacket and shoved him forward down the hallway. __**"P**__**o'shyol,"**__ he growled. _

_It was about ten minutes of slow going, red dots dancing across the walls in front of them. Shadows shifted, grew and receded as shapes appeared and dissolved in the beams of the tac lights. The stony catacombs amplified every sound: the grind of their footsteps, the harsh breathing of the group, a faraway drip of water. Faint ambient light finally reappeared ahead,__ bringing a palpable sense of relief. __ They began to pick up their pace again when an explosive thud __reverberated down the corridor, along with echoed yells and gunshots. Grach roughly shoved Price back up against the wall. "Quiet," he hissed, and Price felt the press of cold steel at his temple. Tac lights and lasers were switched off, plunging them back into almost complete darkness. The Russians whispered urgently amongst themselves, and the shadows of the two guards crept slowly, AK-47s held at the ready, down the corridor ahead of them. They each took up a defensive position and swept in different directions, finally disappearing through a doorway. Grach whispered Russian into his headset. He gripped Price by the back of the neck. "Move."_

_He was steered to the doorway where the two guards were waiting. One man covered their retreat as they turned right, away from the source of the noise, while the other scouted ahead down the passage, Grach keeping Price at gunpoint. They wound their way through a room full of conduits, danger signs and humming electrical equipment. Big Man tucked his gun into his shoulder as the smaller man slowly opened the door in front of them, and they entered what appeared to be a service tunnel. They were nearly to the end when they heard thuds, shouts and the rattle of gunfire nearby. Grach grabbed Price by the collar and pushed him into a recessed doorway. He pointed his MP-443 pistol at Price's face. "Back up. Up – against that pipe. Now!"_

_Price did as he was told and was handcuffed to the pipe. After a brief discussion, the Russians went charging down the corridor and disappeared, leaving him alone - trapped. Gunshots echoed nearby, followed by oppressive silence._

_He squirmed and shifted against the growing ache in his shoulders from the position he was stuck in. What the hell was going on in this place? He gave an experimental yank of the handcuffs. __**Clink.**__ He gave another harder tug, and was rewarded with more pain in his shoulders, wrists and hands. Not that he'd really expected anything different. This wasn't some Hollywood movie. He wasn't about to slip out of the cuffs, break the chain or magically dislodge the pipe from the wall. He wasn't going anywhere._

_Then he had an even more sobering thought: what if they didn't come back? _

_**BOOM.**__ The walls shook. Even if he were a free man right now, he was lost in a huge maze that was being pounded with airstrikes and crawling with unknown enemy combatants. Common sense was to follow the sewers out. But the bombing would mean cave-ins, which meant detours...with no idea of whom would be waiting around the bend to meet him. __**The devil you know**__, he thought grimly. Earlier, he would have rejoiced in the deaths of these men. Now they might be his best ticket out of here. _

_Approaching footsteps cut through his reverie. Grach and the guards were sweating and out of breath, dark expressions on their faces. Grach and the smaller man appeared to be engaged in some sort of debate, which was growing angry. It was cut off when Grach held up a hand. Voice low, he spoke urgently into his headset. Meanwhile, Big Man was investigating the far end of the tunnel, as if that were where he'd rather be heading._

_**BOOM!**__ With a tremendous crash, the ceiling began to rain bricks and dust upon them. Grach and the guards ran for their lives, and Price could only tuck his face into his shoulder and cower against the doorway as the lights were blotted out._

_The rumbling stopped, replaced by coughing. The lights slowly came back into view as the dust began to subside. "Danil?" Grach called. He heard a groan in response. "Stas?" No response. "Stas?" The settling dust revealed the sight of Grach huddled into another recessed doorway, and rubble appearing to move itself as someone was digging himself out. Grach pulled some debris out of the way, and the smaller man stood up, wiping his face and spitting. As soon as they'd dusted themselves off, their expressions revealed the fate of Big Man – Stas. Their rapid-fire conversation began anew, and now involved frequent hostile glances in his direction. Two words burst through all the babble: __**"A**__**merikanskiĭ**__**"**__ and __**"Britantsy"**__. _

_Price's mind reeled. __**WHAT?**_

_Danil's face was getter redder by the minute, and their voices louder. A vein bulged on Grach's forehead as he shouted. __**"Yeb tvoyu matʹ - hvatit tebe pizdetʹ blya!"**_

_Shaking with fury, and now at a loss for words, Danil took off running. Grach's eyes darted between Price and the retreating man's back. "Caught that, did you? Ha - don't get too excited, they nearly just killed you along with us." He rolled his eyes. "Oh, the irony." _

_As if on cue, another muffled thud showered them with dust and small rubble. "They still might." Grach shrank back into the opposite doorway, fear on his face, as Price did the same. Silence fell again with the dust, except for their heavy breathing. Two sets of eyes scanned the broken ceiling, looking for more cracks. __**Shit. In a few minutes, this place could be our tomb.**__ Grach's tense, pacing body language told Price that he couldn't agree more. __**So why are we still standing here?**_

_Then it dawned on him. __**They don't have the keys to the cuffs.**__ They were most likely buried in the collapse along with their keeper. So here he was, chained up in a deathtrap, now about to be killed by friendly fire. It was so utterly absurd that he could have laughed out loud. And fucking hell, his shoulders hurt. Grach was whispering into his headset, as if raising his voice would start an avalanche._

_Finally Danil returned, huffing, with a set of bolt cutters. He cut the chain on the handcuffs, and Price's relief was cut short by the two guns stuck in his face. He put his newly-freed hands in the air, the cuffs still encircling his wrists. Grach grabbed his jacket and pulled him back into the center of the tunnel, while Danil went to work on trying to get the door open. It was then that he saw the twisted body of Stas, half-buried under a pile of rock. The pool of blood beside him was coated with fine dust, like newly-fallen snow. Grach pushed Price aside to pursue Stas's rifle, also partially buried. Lifting away some of the debris, he grabbed the weapon's sling and began to pull, without success. "Fuck!" he snarled. He holstered his pistol, braced his feet and began to pull with all of his strength. _

_Price looked at his hands in disbelief. They both had their backs to him now. There was a chunk of stone beside him that was the size of a human head. He looked at it, and at the back of Grach's head. If allied forces were indeed the aggressors, maybe he had a chance in Hell of getting out alive after all..._

_As soon as his knees bent, Grach whipped around, pistol drawn. He smirked. "I don't think so, old man." Eyes back on the ground, Price raised his hands, as the door creaked open. The Russians began to converse again. The tone had changed somehow, but not for the better. Grach had grown quieter. For the first time, he appeared uncertain. The look Danil gave Price was...predatory. It sounded like he'd gotten the upper hand. Point made, Danil then began to climb down the steel ladder within. Grach prodded him with the gun. "Let's go, we're getting out of here."_

_They at last came to a large r__oom at what was almost a dead end. Caged lamps were lit high above, stabbing sad yellow beams into the dusty gloom. One side of the room contained several racks of computer equipment. A nearby sign warned of high voltage. The other side of the room contained two cages large enough for a man, one with a stained mattress inside. _

_Danil s__trode over and, grabbing a folding metal chair, dragged it noisily to the center of the chamber. __**"Sadit'sya,"**__ he ordered. Price went to the chair and began to sit, but not fast enough for the __man__, who lashed out with a well-aimed kick just above his heel. __The pain was exquisite. Price groaned,__ collapsing into the chair. Danil then brushed past Grach, unslinging his rifle as he disappeared back down the way they had just came._

"_Hands," Grach ordered, waving the __MP-443__ at him. Price held them up, and looked up. The high ceiling was crisscrossed with steel beams. Heavy chains hung down to suspend hooks of various sizes and types, including a couple of meathooks. Grach sat on the edge of a desk just outside the doorway, head tilted, monitoring the radio transmissions._

_Cold dread washed over Price as his eyes continued to sweep the room. Next to the cages was a steel table – the type typically found in a restaurant kitchen...or a morgue. A hose was coiled on a hook on the wall. The metallic smell of blood assaulted his nose. There was a large pool of it around the drain in the corner._

_It w__as half communications center, half killing ground. His heart was thundering in his chest. If they were taking him out of the gulag, then why bring him here? Unless..._

_Grach's bre__athing grew heavy again as he sat near the doorway, listening to his headset, giving an occasional low response. Muscles rippled in his clenched jaw, his voice almost a whisper. __**"Da."**__ His shoulders slumped for a moment, then he rose stiffly to approach Price. __ When their eyes met, Price knew that the game had changed. He recognized that look. It was the same one he'd worn when they'd entered his cell. The look of a defeated man facing his own end, yet still burning with deadly purpose. This room had been chosen for a reason, as he'd feared. His body sang with a fresh jolt of adrenalin._

_Grach gave a heavy sigh of disgust__.__ "So the cavalry came after all." His smile was bitter. "How sweet. They've spent millions of dollars to come and get you. Hell," he gave a hollow laugh. "They spent a few million just blowing up our communications tower. And just think, it will all be for nothing – " He leveled the pistol at Price's head. " – for about 25 cents." _

_Gunfire cracked nearby. The man's eyes flicked back toward the sound. _

_As he lunged upward from the chair, Price's left hand shot up and sideways, snaking around Grach's arm and pulling the surprised man into a struggling embrace. The gun went off right next to Price's head, muffling all sound except for a high-pitched ringing. With the man's gun arm trapped under his armpit, he charged into him, knocking him off balance. _

_The gun fired again and again, muzzle flashes sending flickers of eerie lightning through the cavernous chamber, rounds pinging off the ceiling and walls in puffs of dust. Acrid smoke swirled around the two struggling men as they stumbled together in a desperate waltz. Adrenalin was roaring through Price's body. It drowned out all that didn't matter, numbing the pain of the sharp jab to the back of his arm, bringing all focus to his opponent. He tightened his hold around Grach's __arm__, hyperextending his elbow. The Russian grunted and the gun bounced somewhere on the floor behind them. _

_Price pressed his forearm into Grach's throat, forcing him backward until his back slammed against the wall. Price kept going, plowing his head as hard as he could into the man's face. H__e felt the crunch of bone and cartilage giving way. __ Still temporarily deafened from the gunshots, Price could barely hear the mewling cry bubbling out of Grach as blood began to pour from his nose._

_Agony exploded in Price's guts as Grach's knee rammed up into his groin. His fingernails raked across Price's eyes, then he followed up with a clumsy punch and shoved him away. Doubled over, red welling up in the stinging scratches on his face, Price stumbled backward and collapsed. Stunned, Grach staggered away in the opposite direction, landing on his hands and knees, blood streaming from his face into a small puddle on the stones._

_Price was curled, clutching himself, into a fetal position on the floor. When he had recovered enough to open his eyes, he spied the pistol lying about a meter away. He clambered toward it like a crushed insect. Rolling onto his back, he gripped it with both hands and took aim at the enraged Russian now charging towards him. Grach was almost on top of him now. _

_He pulled the trigger. Pulled again – nothing. It was jammed._

_Grach reared back with a snarl, picking his foot up to stomp Price's face._

_Catching him by the upraised foot, gun still clutched in one hand, Price shoved upward while scissoring both his legs __around Grach's, trapping it. The man fell heavily sideways, crashing to the floor beside him. _

_Price swung the gun around in a wide arc. "...Fuck..." he ground out, smashing the pistol's butt down into the Russian's ruined face. Grach howled, clawing at him. Price brought__ the gun__ back __up__ for another swing. " ...you__**uhmmmf**__." A hand caught his arm, and another clamped over Price's face, digging at his eyes. In an explosive tangle of limbs, Price blocked the attempt and kicked himself free, scrambling backward to protect himself. __**Come on,**__ the thoughts roared in his head. __**Come on...just shoot the bastard! **__ Grach rolled over and lurched toward him with surprising speed. A hand wrapped itself over both of Price's, blocking his frantic efforts to work the jammed gun's slide. His head snapped back as Grach hooked his fist – twice, into his face. His head swam, lights bursting before his eyes. Grach wrenched __his__ thumb backward and Price cried out, the pistol falling from his grasp. Triumphant, Grach seized it and stood up, slapping the weapon's butt against his palm and racking the slide to clear the malfunction._

_As the stuck shell jingled to the floor, Price launched himself drunkenly upward. Grach's finger went for the trigger as he brought the pistol to bear, cut lips pulled back__ in a slick red grimace, curling into a sneer__. __**"Suka,"**__ he gurgled, spitting blood. __Still staggering from the abuse, Price made a clumsy grab for the gun, twisting the barrel sharply sideways. Grach's scream echoed against the high ceiling. He yanked his injured hand backwards, causing Price to lose his grip. The gun twirled from his broken finger and clattered to the floor._

_The scream of pain morphed into rage. Price was stunned at the force of the backhanded blow to the side of his neck. It knocked him backward in a flash of light, and now he was being herded toward the wall, fighting desperately to prevent Grach's hand from encircling his throat – and losing. Scratching. Pushing. Grunting. Locked together, quivering with effort as each man struggled to overpower the other. As they grappled, he felt the racing heartbeat of his enemy, and a thundering vibration in Grach's chest along with his own. Price's throat was raw._

_They were both screaming._

_His back slammed against the wall, followed immediately by his head. More fireworks. He was silenced by the iron grip tightening around his windpipe. He choked and gasped, his vision darkening at the edges. He grabbed Grach's injured hand, grinding the broken bones together. When Grach pulled his hand away, it gave Price the opportunity he needed. He hammered the inside of Grach's elbow, folding his outstretched arm – breaking the chokehold. He powered his knee into Grach's abdomen, hearing the air rush out of him as he sagged forward, and drove his fist straight into his face. The Russian retched and staggered. Price continued to advance, pummeling Grach's face and head. He was spattered with their mingled sweat and blood. He could taste it, and the smell was overpowering. Grach was weaving with his blows, dribbling blood and saliva, clumsily swatting at him. Price could feel his own strength ebbing. One way or the other, this had to end soon._

_Suddenly, Grach managed to catch Price's fist and delivered another brutal strike to Price's battered head, driving him to the floor._

_He heard crackling and popping in his ears. He was dazzled by a shower of stars, and couldn't tell up from down. He was trembling, shaking like a leaf; the adrenalin was draining away. He tensed. __This was it, he was now well and truly fucked. __He brought his hands and knees up, curling into a ball. It was futile, but it was all he could do to prepare himself for a savage kick. It would be the beginning of the end. When it didn't come, he shook his head, clearing his vision a little. A short distance away, Grach was swaying back and forth, punch-drunk. The Russian's body stiffened, squinting bloodshot eyes in an effort to focus: the gun was lying on the floor in front of him. _

_It was get up now, or never get up again._

_It took everything he had. Price rammed into him, his full weight behind his shoulder. Grach's foot slipped on the fallen weapon – hurling him backwards, sending Price sprawling __and the gun __spinning across the room. Grach's reverse tumble came to an abrupt end when he smashed the back of his head against the corner of one of the cages. The man's eyes rolled upward as his body began to go limp. _

_Price was on him in an instant. Teeth bared like an__ animal__, he gripped Grach's jaw and began to bash the man's head, over and over, against the solid steel edge. _

_Grach pawed at him ineffectually for a moment, then his arms fell to his sides like a marionette whose strings had been cut._

_Pri__ce's hearing was returning; the dull roar he heard was sharpening into the sound of his own __fury__. The chamber reverberated with his yelling and the sickening thuds of Grach's shattered skull striking the cage. The sound coming from Grach was a wet, gurgling snort. _

_The __back of the man's head was a soft, bloody, misshapen pulp. Tiny hot droplets speckled his face. Price released his grip and the body crumpled into a twitching heap._

_He now heard something else...muffled shouts in the nearby corridor. Danil. The pistol was nowhere in sight. His eyes darted madly around the room for something – anything. _

_Danil entered, the AK at his shoulder. The fool was wearing a respirator, which, as he discovered the body, prevented him from seeing Price crouched in the shadows. A length of heavy chain came whistling through the air to slam into the back of his head. __Stunned__, he staggered, dropping his rifle. Price moved in for the kill. As he swung a loop of chain over the man's head to encircle his neck, the wall in front of them exploded._

_The Russian took the full brunt of the blast, a punishing onslaught of sharp flying stone blocks and dust. Pulling it taut, Price leaned back on the chain to strangle him. The injured man tottered blindly forward, clutching at the chain around his neck, dragging Price with him, as armed men in black poured in through the hole like angry hornets._

_Using the momentum, Price shoved the guard's body into the nearest one and landed a solid punch to his jaw, knocking him to the ground. Eyes wide, chest heaving, he snatched up the Russian's fallen AK-47 and thrust it into the man's face. _

_Someone was behind him. Price felt the pistol at his head,__ heard the click__. He felt weak in the knees when he heard the familiar Scottish burr in his ear: "Drop it."_

"_Soap?"_

* * *

Rage, sorrow, cold satisfaction...the emotions had swept across MacTavish's face in a turbulent storm as he listened. Yet all the while, Price saw him slowly blinking with drowsiness, trying to shake it off. By the end, he was fighting sleep like a child. Price pushed himself up from his chair.

"I'm off now, Soap. You need your rest."

"Mmm," MacTavish sighed, closing his eyes, surrendering at last.

There was so much to tell him, but at this point, it would simply have to wait. It was just as well, he was in no condition to hear it. He turned to leave, his movements cautious, taking slow steps. He was stiff and achy from sitting.

He paused to look back at Soap, who looked small and broken as he lay there in the rumpled bedclothes. How they were getting out of this one, he didn't know. Tentatively, he approached the bed and pulled the blanket up, smoothing it over him. He began to step away again.

"Price?"

Soap's eyes were at half-mast in his bruised face.

"Thanks," he mumbled.

"Thank _you,_ mate," Price replied softly as he made a quiet exit.


	10. Pinned Down

_**LEGAL DISCLAIMER:** MacTavish, Price, Nikolai and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty:Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games._

_**OTHER DISCLAIMER: **This is a fictional work that takes place in the near future, though at times it is based on true events of the past. A few fictional liberties have been taken, mostly with geography. I speak neither Russian nor Pashto, sorry for any mistakes._

___**This story is an AU, in which Operation Kingfish never happened.**_

_**A/N:** I know it's been a while. I wish I could say it's getting easier, but it's actually much more difficult now. Your patience is appreciated. This one was more of a team effort – I needed all the help I could get in order to get past my writer's block and fear of dialogue! Along with **Sassy Satsuma's **awesome beta-fu, I had some additional feedback help from **Stoneface **and **VerityA. **Thank you! Props to **Sassy **for her assistance with both the dialogue and the delicate art of British profanity :P_

_Very special thanks to **Brooding Pariah **for helping me come up with a name for my bad guys, and for answering my questions about Afghanistan and Pashtun cultural matters. I am extremely fortunate to have such assistance available to me. _

_Finally, thanks so much to **Stoneface, panpanpeppermint, Ordnance, Brooding Pariah, VerityA, x Kyuubi z, animexluva13 and Norm Deploom **for your wonderful reviews – they really mean a lot! SME=subject matter expert. **Norm, **don't worry about that – just keep doing what you're doing. BTW, where's your update? :-)_

_***Original post late August 2011; minor revision 5/28/2012***  
_

* * *

The hike to the mountaintop observation post had taken more out of him than expected. _If you're feeling up to it_, Kamarov had said. Price hated to admit that in fact, he wasn't. He'd refused the Russians' offers to stop for a breather; he felt as if he wouldn't able to get started again if he did. Finally, he found that he had no choice. He stopped to lean against a twisted tree trunk, his breath hitching painfully as he panted. Rivulets of sweat crawled down his scalp and around his ears.

"Are you all right?" Nikolai asked. Price nodded breathlessly.

Sergei and Bogdan exchanged looks. "Not far now," Sergei said, as they turned to continue climbing the steep trail.

Daylight filtered through the branches; the tree was the only thing standing between him and the edge of a cliff. As his gaze plunged downward, he caught glimpses of what looked like doorways built into the surrounding mountains. Trees were sparse in this dry rocky terrain, which was studded with scrubby vegetation.

Nikolai was waiting alongside him. Steeling himself for it, Price slid a thumb under the green web sling of the AK-47, hiking it up on his shoulder. Nikolai, Sergei and Bogdan were similarly equipped with AKs and Russian sidearms. Price had used his own gear to secure his pistol and spare magazines. He thought bitterly of the Serdyukov that now occupied his holster, mourning the loss of his 1911 in the river. His constant companion through many dangers, it had become something of a good luck charm. Maybe his luck was running out.

Price and Nikolai picked their way past some large boulders until at last they met the two other Russians at the summit. A natural wall of uneven gray rock receded to reveal the source of the doorways. Well-camouflaged by their surroundings, there were quite a few stone and timber houses nestled into the steep brown hillsides, which swept down into surprisingly green valley. There was the odd wisp of smoke from cookfires. Goats and chickens milled about in terraced pens. The pastoral scene looked frozen in time, until Price saw a column of dust rising from a faraway vehicle. Behind the mountains in front of them, dark shadows rose far in the distance, wispy crowns of gray cloud blurring patches of stark white – Afghanistan's oldest and best means of breaking the will of the would-be conqueror.

The rock wall continued mostly at waist height or above, not unlike a balcony railing. Loose rocks were piled around the lowest section near the center. It then rose upward again on the opposite side, blending back into the mountain. Buzz and another man were up there, standing at the far end, peering down into the valley. As with Price, sweat stained the light cotton shirts beneath their body armor. Both had Glocks on their hips, and M4s dangled behind them. The man standing next to him was wearing a backwards baseball cap with a laughing skull on it. He had one foot propped up on a rock, looking through a pair of binoculars, a cigarette smoldering between two fingers.

The two turned to greet them. "Hey, Price," said Buzz in his slow southern drawl, brightening at their approach. He nodded at the Russians. "Gentlemen." The other man was of medium height and build. His weathered face was framed by a full beard, and hazel eyes peeked out from under a mop of shaggy dirty blond hair shot with gray. A few faded green tattoos decorated tanned arms corded with wiry muscle. He stuck his cigarette in his mouth and stepped down from the wall. Buzz tilted his head in the man's direction. "This is my partner, we all just call him the Rev."

"You're a vicar?" asked Price as he shook the man's hand.

Rev grinned sheepishly around his Marlboro. "More like a dime-store philosopher," Buzz replied.

Price wiped his brow, took a swig of water and squinted down at the green tableau. It was farmland, with a fairly large number of figures making their way through the fields. A Loyalist sniper team had a Dragunov and spotting scope set up along the rock wall. He frowned.

"Here," said Buzz, offering him the binoculars.

Price took a good look. He sagged back against the rock. Acres of pink and white poppies carpeted the valley far below, as far as the eye could see. A few Afghan men with AKs looked on as dozens of others sorted through the bulbous green pods, scoring them with small blades to bleed them of their milky sap, which would later be collected after drying into a reddish-pink resin.

Price could hear Buzz chuckling at his sour expression. Though Kamarov's reluctance to discuss some aspects of their mission had been understandable, this went beyond mere security. Obviously, cooperation with the CIA wasn't the only thing leaving a bad taste in his mouth. "So this is the cost of doing business."

"You got it." Buzz shrugged.

Price glanced over his shoulder. The Russians were chatting and passing out cigarettes. "Quite the cozy arrangement. How does that work – the Russians come with their _ushankas _in hand, the Afghans offer them a bouquet and everybody's friends again?"

Buzz grinned. "Sort of. First, you gotta ask, and do it nicely." His eyes widened in earnesty, though with his big blue eyes and sunburned round cheeks the effect was almost comical. "I'm serious."

"_Pashtunwali, _the code of honor, demands that the entire tribe must provide sanctuary to those who ask. Once given, they'll defend that person – or persons – to the death," said Rev. His American accent was much less distinctive, possibly midwestern.

Buzz continued. "Next, help protect the tribe and their fields from their enemies. In return, they help us make sure that opium isn't the only thing taking the Silk Road back to Mother Russia."

Price took another long look, letting out a soft groan of disgust. He needed a minute to let this all sink in.

"Such righteous indignation...from a former Blade?" A knowing chuckle. "Try not to hurt yourself polishing that halo, buddy."

The hot flare of anger briefly illuminated what lurked in Price's darkest corners. _Touché. _He wasn't going to go there, not now; some things were best left locked away. The fact that he'd let the man get a rise out of him, one much greater than intended, was bad enough. He conceded with a huff, a tilt of the head and a wry smile, letting Buzz chalk this one up in the 'win' column while he sought a way to steer the conversation elsewhere.

After sensory deprivation in the gulag had brought Price to the brink of madness, the flood of information following his rescue had nearly pushed him over the edge. Following months of isolation, the news was worse than he could have dreamed. Russia had attacked America, and the World was poised on the brink of global war. At the time, he'd let information of other current events simply wash over him, lest he drown. Now he suddenly recalled such a piece of news: the recent collapse of the Afghan central government and the escalating violence that followed. History was repeating itself, as it tended to do in Afghanistan. Not that who was in charge ever mattered much in this part of the country.

_Meet the new boss...same as the old boss. _

"So yet another puppet show in Kabul gets an unhappy ending." It came out as half statement, half question. _Quid pro quo, you tosser._

"Price, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to hurt my feelings." Soft laughter rippled through the group.

Buzz sighed, mocking amusement dissolving into world-weary resignation. "Yeah...as usual, the bodies weren't even cold before the power grab started. So to add fuel to the fire, along comes the latest bunch of gun-toting chuckleheads in Toyota Hiluxes. They call themselves the New Dawn of Afghanistan. They're pretty new all right, many are foreigners. They rolled on in to the outlying areas, vowing to restore order. That sort of thing always sounds good when you're living with lawlessness and banditry on a daily basis..."

"...but be careful what you wish for," Price murmured.

"Oh yeah. Once they take control of an area, they begin to impose their own ultra-restrictive laws, all in the name of 'decency' and 'virtue'."

"Let me guess – public executions?"

Buzz nodded. "Beatings, amputations, beheadings. No one above the level of footsoldier actually believes the rhetoric, of course. They're after control of the poppy fields – and the smuggling routes.

The man stooped to retrieve a water bottle nestled between some rocks. "So we stepped in to help the tribe keep them out, and let Kamarov's men take the credit. Now the Loyalists have safe harbor and safe passage, and the village has some additional protection against NDA thugs."

"And you have your proxy to destabilize the Voreshevsky government, which you probably had long before Russia attacked America."

Buzz clucked his tongue. "Now that would be telling."

"As for the opium, it would be nice to put a stop to it, but that's not what we're here for – not this week, anyway," said Rev. The corner of his mouth twitched. "_Heh_, the government made them plow the poppies under last year. They made a big show of it. But guess what? That was the same as planting more, and now they have a bumper crop." He shook his head sadly. "As long as their economy is in ruins and this is what's in demand, don't expect them to start growing corn instead."

Price was amazed that after all these years, gunshots and explosions, he still had the ability to hear Bogdan muttering under his breath behind him. "Sometimes, demand is manufactured..."

The two Americans had already resumed watching the fields, either ignoring his remark or completely oblivious. "We sent them running for the hills, though they still insist on taking the occasional potshot at us," said Buzz, unscrewing the cap. "However, we're getting reports that they're building a strong presence in the nearby town. If they control that, they control the main road out of here. Now that," he swallowed a mouthful of water. "- we cannot abide. If we can soften them up, we're betting that tribal grudges and damaged honor will take care of the rest."

"Come, we have more to show you," Nikolai said, diverting his eyes from Price's to give a meaningful glance to the former FSB men. He clapped a hand on Bogdan's shoulder. "_Davaĭ_."

They had already begun making their way down the slope when Rev, eyes still fixed on the valley below, spoke again. "Around here, damaged honor demands payment in blood." He took a quick puff on his cigarette. "These people have long memories."

Sergei shot him a hard look over his shoulder. They kept walking, not realizing the man had only paused until they again heard his voice growing faint behind them. "They have a saying: _Speak good words to an enemy very softly; then destroy him, root and branch._"

* * *

In contrast to the chilly evenings, they were now withering in the afternoon heat. The tour of the winding paths that crowned the mountaintop was all well and good. However, with precious little shade and the air shimmering over rock and gravel, Price found himself looking forward to the tight passageways and damp musty air of the bunker. Thankfully, the Russians had decided to cut it short. Though he hadn't complained, he knew his discomfort had shown in his stiff gait, and was written all over his face. The group's atmosphere had been subdued, and most of the sparse conversation hadn't been in English. As they approached the bunker's camouflaged hilltop entrance, something briefly cut the bright sunlight that beat down on them. Price saw a shadow drifting along the ground.

On instinct, he stepped back underneath the camo netting. A pair of slightly bloodshot blue eyes peered up through the dappled light, catching a brief metallic glint high above. They narrowed, then melted back into the shadows.

* * *

"A Predator drone...they're looking for us. I'm surprised it's taken them this long."

Soap was propped up on pillows, looking more alert than he had in days. The heavy blanket had been folded at the foot of the bed, leaving him covered to the waist with a sheet. The lumpy outline of his bandaged midsection showed through the thin cotton fabric of his pajama top. His jaw was shadowed in rough stubble, and patches of his scruffy mohawk were still matted with bits of dried blood. The mottled green and purple bruises tattooing his scabbed face only served to intensify his stern expression.

Anger and hurt crept into his voice. "I'm also surprised it's taken you this long to tell me."

"If I'd had, would you remember? You spent your first two days here in intensive care. Do you even remember that? Do you remember some of the things you said?"

MacTavish blanched.

"Do you remember what I told you yesterday?" Gentle amusement warmed Nikolai's question.

Momentarily cowed into silence, Soap switched his gaze between the faces of the two men at his bedside. "I guess I have been pretty out of it," he admitted. His face darkened again, the apparent willingness to listen to reason gone as quickly as it came. "But I'm not now. Just so I have this straight: the Loyalists, with help from the CIA, are hatching a plot to retake Russia while guarding poppy fields for some Afghan warlord..." Wincing and grunting, he pushed himself up on his arms and began to slowly scoot his way to the edge of the bed.

"Just another day at the office. Don't forget the part where we're posing as mercenaries."

Price realized that maybe he shouldn't have said that.

"...and things are about to get busy with – _ugh - _a hostile militia, a US special ops team is on their way..." Pain etched his features as he slowly freed his legs from the confines of the sheets and swung them over the side of the bed, gingerly settling bare feet on the cold concrete floor. His eyes were shut tight as he turned his face away from them, taking deep breaths, fingers gripping the edge of the mattress.

_Mate, while you're good at a lot of things, you always were a terrible liar._

Price noticed Nikolai edging closer to the bedside. The commotion had also attracted the attention of Sasha, the short, dark and broad Russian medic whom Kamarov had assigned to watch over Soap.

"Soap, I don't think – "

MacTavish opened his eyes and turned back toward them, wearing a look that Price knew all too well. " – all while we sit and wait for the other shoe to drop? The Yanks will have their pound of flesh soon enough. Where are my clothes?"

What happened next made Price appreciate the Russians' foresight for the second time in as many days. Soap stood up suddenly and took a step.

"Ohh...shite," he breathed, his grim determination draining away along with his color. Nikolai was already in motion as Soap's knees buckled and he slumped forward, face slack, eyes half-closed. The IV line snapped to its elastic limit and pulled the pole over with a crash. By the time Price had launched himself out of his chair, Sasha and Nikolai were struggling with Soap's limp body between them.

MacTavish was white-faced and sweaty. A small moan escaped him, and Price could see him gritting his teeth; he could well imagine what Soap was holding back. The Russians draped his arms over their shoulders and began guiding him back to the bed, ignoring his weak protests. "I'm fine, I'm fine. I just got dizzy, that's all," he gasped.

"_Zatknis," _said Sasha, annoyed at both the mess and the fact that he and Nikolai were currently bearing most of MacTavish's weight.

"Well that was impressive," said Price. He set the fallen pole upright while the two Russians got Soap back into bed, lying flat. MacTavish was grimacing, an arm wrapped protectively around his abdomen. Blood oozed around the white IV catheter hanging halfway out of his hand, the loose ends of the tape barely stuck to the skin. Price shook his head with a half-smile. "What are you going to do, Soap – bleed on them?"

Misha hovered over them, scowling. "You didn't want to get up this morning – now you're trying to run off on me." While Sasha wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Soap's bicep, Misha pulled the IV out the rest of the way and pressed a gauze square to the back of MacTavish's bleeding hand. "You're determined to ruin our hard work, aren't you? Or do you just like getting stuck?" Soap groaned, screwing his eyes shut in pain and irritation.

"Looks like you just got up too quickly, eh?" Price sat at the bedside, positioning himself in the hopes of distracting Soap from the medics' activities. The Russians talked amongst themselves, looking altogether displeased. Having finished taking vitals, they were about to restart his IV. Sasha was priming a new set; he squeezed the drip chamber and watched the clear liquid shoot down the tubing, clamping off the flow once it began to drip out the end. Misha had applied a tourniquet and was prodding the flesh of Soap's forearm with a questing fingertip. MacTavish gave a heavy sigh, passing his now-bandaged hand over his eyes, careful to avoid touching his broken nose.

"I recall hearing something about pride and falls." Price grinned. "Just can't stop yourself from being a stubborn prat, can you?" He caught a sharp whiff of antiseptic.

Soap lifted his hand from his face to look at him in mild outrage, sutured eyebrow raised. "Says the man who keeps giving death a good kick in the bollocks." He grunted at the jab of the needle and sighed again, sinking back further into the pillow. Most of his color was back. "We really stepped in it, didn't we?"

Price was grim. "We did. But as far as our friends from Langley are concerned, we're just a couple of soldiers for hire who don't like questions any more than they do. In a few days, Kamarov's men will take us to the safe house."

"Price." Soap's weary eyes locked onto his. "Don't wait."

"Come again?"

Soap frowned and glanced over at Misha, who was thumbing the plunger on a syringe that he'd slipped into the newly reestablished IV line. The needle's cap was clamped in his teeth, bobbing as he spoke. "No arguments this time, my friend."

Soap rolled his eyes, his jaw muscles rippling in frustration, and returned his attention to Price. "Let's talk to Kamarov. You and Nikolai should make for the safe house immediately, I'll catch up."

Price felt his face burning. "You pulled me from that hellhole, I'm not leaving you behind to be measured for an orange boiler suit." He glanced at Nikolai. "We stay here."

"_Da,_" said the Russian pilot with a resolute nod.

"For now, my job is to play along, yours is to get better," said Price. He felt the medics' eyes on him. They had gathered supplies for a dressing change and were snapping on gloves, so he and Nikolai both stood to leave. Despite the seriousness of their situation, Price had to hold back a laugh at the look on MacTavish's face. He was clearly less than thrilled with the prospect of what was about to transpire.

As he and Nikolai stepped out of the room, hearing the swish of the curtain being drawn behind them, Price offered the best parting words that he could. "At the moment, even if they do know, we're not their top priority."

* * *

Enough time had passed for Nikolai to leave in search of food. Sasha soon followed him, giving his hands a quick wash and passing Price with only a cursory glance. Price sat on a crate in the hallway, shifting uncomfortably and picking at loose threads on his trousers. Finally, Misha emerged from the room, turning off the light behind him. The curtain was still partially drawn around the bed, casting shadows over the still form beneath the covers.

"The medication has taken effect, he'll be quiet for the rest of the night. The wound and incision both look good, no sign of infection there. His fever is gone and his lungs are clearing up, he just needs time."

Price had barely looked at him. He was staring at the floor. "We're running out it." He hung his head with a sigh, closing his eyes for a moment. "I can't see him taking a long journey anytime soon."

Misha shrugged, giving him a small smile. "Tomorrow is another day. In my time as a doctor, I've learned that people can still surprise you. But he's not the only one that's still healing. You should turn in early." He fished a set of keys from his pocket. "I can give you a sleeping pill if you'd like."

"No thanks." Price rose and turned to leave.

Misha's voice was soft behind him. "How long has it been, Price?"

Price stiffened, stopping in his tracks.

"How long since you were able to sleep through the night without one?"

A slow half-turn brought Price back around to face the medic, his eyes downcast, foiling the attempt to see through him. His voice was almost a whisper, edged with barely-contained anger. "That's none of your business." He strode out of the infirmary without a backward glance.

Price didn't give a damn about Misha's good intentions, and he sure as hell didn't need his fucking sympathy. It added yet another surge to the waves of conflict roiling within him. The hunt was on, and the eyes in the sky never slept. Their cover story was, at best, a house of cards – one about to collapse under the scrutiny of the US Intelligence officers. Waiting was a luxury they could no longer afford, but their injuries had left them both vulnerable. Soap could barely stand, let alone walk. Price's heart had sank at Soap's suggestion to leave him behind, though it was the wisest course of action. It was also unthinkable. MacTavish had come for him when all hope was lost. Price couldn't abandon him. The order for their termination hadn't necessarily died along with Shepherd. If they were even lucky enough to be captured, then so be it; Soap wouldn't be captured alone. That possibility loomed closer with each passing day, and his attempt to reassure MacTavish had been nothing short of pathetic.

_'...even if they do know, we're not their top priority.' Good one, John. Who are you trying to convince – Soap, or yourself?_

* * *

**___Davaĭ_: **Let's go**  
**

**_Ushanka: _**Russian fur cap with ear flaps; lit. 'ear hat'

**_Zatknis: _**Shut up (rude)


	11. Texas Blue Badger

**_LEGAL DISCLAIMER: _**_MacTavish, Price, Nikolai, Kamarov and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty: Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Sledgehammer/Activision – not mine. A big thank you to everyone who brought those games and characters to us, and for letting me take them on a joyride._

**_WARNING:_**_**Contains violence and multilingual profanity.**_

_**A/N: **Hello again, and sorry for the delay. Life intervened once more, I'm afraid._

_Here we are, poised on the eve of MW3. So there will likely be another delay, while I play the game! Thanks so much for your wonderful support, and for sticking with me. Much gratitude to **Stoneface, Ordnance, Brooding Pariah **and** Sassy **for the reviews, and to everyone who followed/favorited as well._

_...and **Rooby Roo**, you deserve an extra-special mention of your own, for coming completely out of the blue with those, for a fic that by that time was deeply buried, all while studying for those exams!_

_As ever, a shoutout and huge hugs to my lovely beta **Sassy Satsuma, **and to my friend **Illusion **for his guidance on sniping._

_As for any similarities between TD and MW3, Chapter Six was posted in April 2011, and has not been altered in any way._

_Please forgive any non-English language mistakes...and my terrible cruelty to Price. ;-)_

_-UO, 11-6-2011_

* * *

In a climate-controlled trailer, in an undisclosed location, two men sat at a computer console. Their tall-backed task chairs were ergonomically designed for long hours of comfortable sitting. Joysticks were in their hands; keyboards, mice and trackballs were within easy reach. The ambient lighting was dim, leaving their dark silhouettes awash in the ghostly glow of multiple flat screen monitors, a wall of illumination rising from desktop to ceiling. Some showed colorful maps and data readouts. However, each man was focused on the camera feed displayed on the large screen directly in front of him. Rough dark wrinkles of mountains, green carpets of farmland and shiny ribbons of water were all laid out in miniature, teeming with life too small to be seen: villagers, livestock, potential enemy combatants and two known groups of friendlies.

Centered on each image was a white crosshair, along with numbers in the corners displaying a time stamp and information relevant to that man's particular role.

The two straightened, listening to their headsets. New orders, and a new heading.

"Pilot copies."

"Sensor copies."

The onscreen horizon tilted as the aircraft banked into a turn, then evened out. The camera zoomed in on a sprawling, flat-roofed, mud-walled house. A few vehicles were parked outside.

"Roger that. We've got eyes on the target building."

The scene was swarming with tiny figures. Some formed a dotted line surrounding the perimeter. A couple more lay unmoving on a nearby hillside, while a group piled up outside the door. They poured into the house, disappearing from view.

Minutes passed. The ones outside were still. Nothing changed, then the figures inside the house eventually trickled back out again. The others began to leave their positions, moving to join them.

A black cloud burst into the corner of the screen, flashing white, and they all scattered like ants in the opposite direction.

* * *

Throughout the valley, all visible life paused at the dull thud of the explosion. Every head turned – from the turbaned farmers tending their fields to the veiled women and their children herding goats on the hillside. Even the animals seemed to stand still. None of this escaped the notice of the armed men standing on the mountaintop.

A radio broke the silence. "Mustang two one, this is Echo six, do you copy?"

A southern drawl answered. "This is Mustang two one, go ahead."

Oily black smoke from the car bomb was just rising into view at the OP. Radio in hand, Buzz had stepped away from the main group – to maintain some sort of confidentiality, Price presumed.

Rev was in the exact same position he'd been in when Price first met him: foot propped up on the stone wall, looking through the binoculars. Further down along the wall, Sergei and Bogdan were conversing in their native tongue. Bogdan had plucked a lone poppy from between the rocks, pulling it out by the roots. He twirled the crooked stem between his fingers as they talked, frowning, and tossed the dying plant aside. Two other Loyalists were patrolling the steep downhill path that split off from the one leading up to the OP, just past the bunker entrance.

While he spoke, Buzz craned his neck to look up at the tiny speck of the Predator UAV humming far over their heads. Price could still hear snatches of his conversation.

"Everyone okay?"

"Affirmative," the rough American voice on the other end replied. "They detonated too soon." He snorted. "Fuckin' amateurs."

"Any crows?"

"Just some dude they had playing sentry to an empty house. Seems like a nobody. We'll check it out and be back in time for dinner."

"Roger that. See you soon. Out."

_Things are about to get a lot more complicated_. Price decided that his pistol needed some attention. Pulling a small rag from one of his pouches, he idly wiped away an excess smear of oil from the slide. He gave it the once-over with the rag and checked chamber, showing little interest as a frowning Buzz clipped the radio back on his vest and rejoined the group.

Rev looked at him expectantly. "There was no meet."

Buzz curled his lip. "Just the remote-control welcome committee."

"More bad intel." Rev's expression was hard. "Time to cut that one loose."

Price kept his thoughts to himself as he watched the activity below, which had resumed as if nothing had happened. The men slowly worked their way through the poppy field. On the terraced hillside, the women's colorful veils fluttered in the breeze. Bells jingled around the goats' necks. A few small children played tag, scattering a flock of chickens in their wake. Beside him, Nikolai quietly smoked a cigarette, sneaking a glance at the Americans.

Today wasn't nearly as hot. The sky was a clear blue, the fields an emerald green enveloped in brown hills. A sparkling river snaked its way through the valley floor, like a path to beckon an unwary traveler.

He felt a presence behind him. Buzz's voice cut the silence.

"Beautiful, isn't it? Almost looks like a peaceful place." Then he noticed what had caught Price's eye: a truck was approaching the men in the field, the exposed frame for the rear canopy resembling the ribs of some huge beast. "How's MacTavish doing today?"

The use of the name sent a thrill of warning through Price, who wondered if the CIA men were simply biding their time until Soap was fit enough to be taken prisoner. They certainly had them right where they wanted them. "Resting."

"Rest...seems like injuries are the only time we really get it. No rest for the weary...or the wicked," said Buzz, turning to him with a grin. Gripping his weapon sling, he slid his M4 behind him and rested his forearms on the rock wall, taking in the view. "You forget how to slow down – until the Army or whomever does it for you. The SAS - they kick you out at 40, don't they?"

_But you know that, don't you? _Price grunted in affirmation. The less he said, the better.

"I don't care if you do know when you sign up." He shook his head, watching the farmers sift through the foliage. "After all those years, all those missions, it's still gotta stick in your craw."

Price didn't offer a response, and Buzz didn't look for one.

"But it's all a business now, right?" said Buzz, turning toward him with a lift of his eyebrows. "And business is _booming_..." He caught himself with a chuckle, rolling his eyes in the direction of the smoke. Rev gave him a sideways look, shaking his head, an unlit cigarette between his lips as he rifled through his pockets. "...so there's still plenty out there for the likes of us."

Price took his cue with a smirk. "Like standing around all day watching posh lard arses beach themselves? Getting all tooled up for a celebrity shopping adventure? Or maybe a new career as a rent-a-thug in some banana republic?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Price saw Nikolai offer his lighter. Rev nodded in appreciation and took it, lighting up.

Buzz's shoulders shook in a spasm of silent mirth, but then his smile melted into an uncharacteristic seriousness. He returned his gaze to the valley. "Every dog has his day, Price – and we've had ours. Can't save the World forever." He sighed. "That's a younger man's game."

The usual grin crawled back across his face. "Anyway, sounds like you're just not making the right connections, man. You know, we might just have a place for a guy like you..."

_Drugged up and handcuffed in the back of a plane, you mean? No thanks, did that one already._

The grin was faltering. "...if you're interested," His voice trailed off at the change in Sergei's expression.

Sergei spoke Russian into his headset, frowning. With a brief word to Bogdan, he turned and headed down the trail that encircled the mountainside directly below them.

Buzz barely hid his annoyance. With a quick glance at Rev, he addressed Bogdan. "What's up?"

Bogdan tilted his head, listening. "They've found something." He fell silent again.

After a few minutes, there was still no more word. Buzz noticed Price's remote stare, and turned to follow it until sudden movement distracted him. Scowling, Bogdan had his rifle at his shoulder, sweeping the valley through his scope.

He responded in Russian over the comms. "Someone cut the wires to the claymores..."

Each man straightened up, now on full alert. Hands unconsciously moved toward weapons.

Price's eyes had never left the field, and Buzz finally caught what he was looking at. The farmers were piling into the back of the truck. Price's eyes narrowed. "They're quitting early, aren't they?"

"Yeah..." Buzz pulled his rifle into reach, while Price picked up his own from its resting place against the stone wall.

With all of the men huddled in back and hanging on tight, the truck pulled away, bumping and jerking over the dirt road.

Rev now held his own M4 at the low ready position, approaching the still-silent Bogdan. "You're right...things just got way too quiet."

Buzz glanced impatiently at the tall Russian. "Well?"

"They're on their way back now."

"It would have been nice to let us know."

Bogdan didn't reply, squinting into his scope. The valley was now just as silent. The other people that had been out tending their animals had left.

Not a soul was in sight.

A hissing shriek sent Price's heart into his throat; he dropped into crouch against the stone wall. The others were tensed in readiness but remained mostly unmoved. Buzz laughed, while the others let out a collective sigh.

"First time hearing an 'RPG bird', huh? They do sound pretty convincing. No idea what they're actually called."

"'Change of underwear' birds?" Rev's suggestion received a few uneasy chuckles.

Price's shoulders still rose and fell with the adrenalin tide, which had yet to recede. Buzz grinned broadly. "Relax, man." His head tilted with a quirk of his bushy eyebrows. "Stress'll kill ya, you know."

Price gave him a withering look and turned to Nikolai, who shrugged and tamped his cigarette butt into a rock.

Price propped his rifle back against the wall beside him. He braced himself, preparing to stand up and trying not to think about how much it was going to hurt.

_SNAP. _Buzz staggered backward with a gasp.

Price whirled to face him; Buzz was clutching his chest, crying out, face crumpled in pain as he sank to his knees. With another sharp crack and a grunt next to him, a falling body slumped into Price, the sudden crushing weight pressing him back downward. Everyone was in motion, diving for cover. The sound of the gunshots finally reached them, echoes rolling over the mountainsides.

Struggling to stay upright, Price lowered the man gently to the ground. The man's head lolled sideways, bright red blood gushing from his temple, his limp hand flopping into the dirt.

"Nikolai!"

The Russian's face was pale, his eyes closed. Price found a strong steady pulse, timing the rhythmic surges of blood streaming from the small hole above his right ear. Price lightly slapped his face. "Nikolai – can you hear me?" No response.

He received a stark reminder that they were now exposed: another crack in the sound barrier as a shot whistled past his face. A cloud of dirt burst next to Nikolai's head. Rev threw himself forward, grabbing the unconscious Russian's vest and dragging him behind cover, as Price scrambled backward out of the kill zone.

Bogdan calmly stood over them, squeezing off loud automatic bursts, empty bullet casings jingling on the rocks. Though the low area of the rock wall spanned only a couple of meters, the sniper fire had now turned it into a vast divide, separating Price and Buzz from the others. Grim fortune was theirs; the shooters had let their excitement get the better of them, otherwise they would have finished the job.

Rev's hand dug into his vest pocket, producing a dull green package. He looked over at Buzz. "You good?"

Buzz gave a curt nod in reply. Dropping his cracked radio to the ground, he cursed and jerked his hand away from the still-hot 7.62 round embedded in his vest.

Rev turned his attention back to Nikolai. He tore open the field dressing and began applying pressure to the wound. The side of Nikolai's face and neck were a slick red, his shirt collar and the right shoulder of his vest now soaked. "Nick? Nick! Come on – talk to me, buddy."

Sergei came storming up the path, something dark clutched in his hand. "_Yebanyĭ v rot,_" he swore. "They used blankets to hide their heat signatures – built a weapons cache right under our noses!" Catching sight of Nikolai lying motionless on the ground, he threw down the heavy woolen blanket he'd been holding and took a knee beside Rev. Sergei called Nikolai's name, addressing him in Russian, his scowl deepening as he got a better look at the wound.

"Looks like he caught a ricochet. A direct hit would have been game over," said Rev, prying open each eyelid. He was rewarded with a groan. His face cracked into a smile. "That's it."

Nikolai's brow furrowed. He stirred and began to mumble in groggy Russian. Sergei chuckled and replied, clapping him on the shoulder. Whatever he'd said, it even got a grin out of Bogdan. Rev glanced at Price in reassurance, and gave a short laugh of relief. "We thought you were a goner."

"_Chto_?" Nikolai reached up to touch the dressing, only to have Rev catch his hand. The pilot's face creased in pain. "..._oĭ_."

"Easy," said Rev. His smile had dissolved into concern once again as he studied the now-saturated dressing beneath his hand. Blood continued to ooze from underneath, dripping from dark wet spikes in Nikolai's hair. "You're leaking pretty good."

Rev tied the dressing tightly in place around the pilot's head. Nikolai winced, a hand still hovering near the injury. Rev addressed Sergei, his expression grave. "We need to get him inside. Help me get him up."

Price needed to retrieve his rifle, which lay in the middle of the clearing. Nikolai's was nowhere in sight – he might have dropped it over the front of the wall when he was shot, but Price wasn't about to stick his head up to find out. He found a dead tree branch. Staying low, he reached out, slipped it beneath the sling's webbing and started to pull. The AK dragged slowly along the ground, until the stick snapped. _Close enough_. He lunged out in a quick grab, yanking the gun toward himself.

With a loud _BANG _and burst of sparks, the rifle jerked from his grasp. Price recoiled as if stung, hurling himself backward to safety. The gun had fallen back to its starting point, but with one addition: the sniper's bullet had left a big dent in the receiver.

_Shit. _His snarl of exasperation left him in a huff, replaced by stern reality. He sucked in a grateful breath, sagging back against the wall's protective stones. He eyed his now-useless rifle. _Small payment for big stupidity. _

"Tell them what you found," said Bogdan, helping Nikolai to his feet.

"Kalashnikovs, RPGs, ammo for both plus 12.7 millimeter," Sergei said. He pulled one of Nikolai's arms over his shoulder, and Bogdan pushed his large frame past Rev to take the other, earning a fleeting look of irritation from the American. Letting the matter drop, Rev instead picked up his M4. Anger smoldered beneath lowered eyelids and the stringy blond fringe spilling over the strap of his baseball cap. Price didn't doubt that the man, even with his back turned, could feel the unspoken challenge in Bogdan's dark eyes.

Buzz's face grew cold with fury as he stared at the blanket. "Son of a bitch."

Bogdan's voice was a low growl. "It won't be the only one."

With assistance, Nikolai took a few wobbly steps, and didn't seem too sure of where he was. "Where are we going?"

"We're taking you to the – "

Rev never finished his sentence. An explosion rocked the hillside directly below their vantage point, the concussion wave sending them all reeling. They were showered with a stinging spray of gravel and dirt.

"That was accurate – looks like the Flintstones brought a GPS with them when they were up here sneaking around. Get back to base and get Oracle on the horn," Buzz shouted.

"What about you?"

"We can try making our way down to the hillside trail from here, take the shortcut."

"Most of that's exposed."

"Not all of it. One thing's for sure – the next guy to set foot in this gap is gonna get smoked. Who knows, we might even get lucky."

Price caught Sergei's eyes, and answered his questioning look with a subtle nod. Refusal wasn't an option. Rev opened his mouth to protest, until they all heard the faint _whump_. Everyone, even Nikolai, ran like hell.

The 82 millimeter shell smashed down directly on the spot where they'd all been standing moments before, and Price wasn't quite fast enough. The blast sent him tumbling down the slope, knocking the wind out of him. A buzz saw of red-hot shrapnel flew over his head, chattering against the rocks and shredding the trees. There was nothing but tiny white stars, a loud maddening hum and the metallic taste of explosives in his mouth.

Pain was beginning to seep through the cottony numbness. He felt himself turning, felt hands slide under his hat to cradle his head, moving their way downward, feeling him for injuries. He struggled to focus on the blur in front of him, and couldn't comprehend the muffled voice through the ringing in his ears. The hands withdrew. With a flurry of movement, he was left staring into empty blue space.

Something hard bit into his knees and elbows when he rolled over, still trying to determine which way was up. An object was coming into focus in front of him: his own gloved hand splayed against the ground, coated with powdery dust. Trembling, he pushed himself up on all fours. He sniffled and wiped the moist warmth from his upper lip, examining the red smear on the back of his hand.

He felt the ground thumping beneath him, then heard the muffled crunch of approaching footsteps.

"Price – come on."

With a slow painful turn of his head, he peered up at another gloved hand in his face. Buzz towered over him, arm extended, with both his M4 and a soft rifle case slung over his uninjured shoulder.

"You're still in one piece, but not for long if you don't get up."

Price took the hand, which jerked him back onto his feet. "_Unh," _Buzz winced with the effort.

Price was hunched over, hands on his thighs, eyes shut tight while he waited for the world to stop spinning. The sharp tug on his chest rig almost sent him crashing back down again.

"Let's go!" Buzz shouted.

_Whump._

Their boots frantically pounded the uneven terrain, Price's arms windmilling to keep what little balance he had, weaving in a drunken rush down the path. Brambles snagged clothing and flesh as they ran in short downhill leaps, grabbing and shoving at anything that stuck out in order to prevent themselves from falling on their faces. His heart was slamming against his ribs, his throat raw from gasping for the breath that he'd never truly regained.

_Thud._

Spent, they threw themselves down in the lee of the hillside, and to the mercy of whatever was coming, hands thrown up to shield their faces. A few dirt clods and rocks bounced around them. A fine mist of soil, then silence, drifted down like snow.

They both lay on their backs, chests heaving. "_Pah!" _Buzz spat dirt from his mouth and looked over at him. "You all right?"

"Yeah."

"That was quite a blast you took."

"Still breathing. Apart from the ribs, I'm fine."

Though he was anything but fine, he'd been left to count his blessings. A high-explosive blast wave could shatter a man on the inside, leaving him looking whole but spiraling toward rapid death. The blast at the bridge hadn't even been HE, and he'd barely survived it. He pushed the few remaining memories from his mind. The aftereffects might not be felt until much later; he swept that terrible knowledge aside also.

Buzz grimaced, looking down at his chest. "I hear ya. That one's going to leave a mark." He dropped his head back down in the dust, still breathing heavily.

Both were quiet for a few minutes, catching their breath.

_Whump. _The sound was further away than before.

Neither moved. They were off the hilltop now, and out of the line of fire.

_Thud. _

"So...do much sniping in the SAS?"

Price huffed, and turned his head to shoot him a look of weary offense. "Surely you can't be serious."

"You don't say." His arm folded protectively over his injured right shoulder, his brow knotted in discomfort. "Well, I'm not much feeling up to it today. How about you do the honors? Here." He shoved the case over in Price's direction.

Price rolled up onto his good side and pulled it toward him. It was heavy. He felt a warm rush of pleasure as he guessed what he might find, and couldn't help his reaction when he unzipped it and saw the words CHEYTAC .408 INTERVENTION stamped into the metal. Not a problem.

"I thought that might put a smile on your face. Puts one on mine every time." He slid his hand to the center of his chest and smiled mockingly at the sky. "Warms my heart." The grin darkened. "Puts big holes in others." Buzz hefted his M4 and stood up with a groan.

The path they were on curved sharply right, with the edge of a cliff straight ahead of them. There was another rock ledge immediately below it, and a narrower one below that with a small knot of trees. The mountainside to their left partially blocked their view of the valley; they would have to climb down on the ledges to get a full visual of where their enemies were hiding.

Buzz grabbed a small bag from the rifle case. A slow slide on his rear brought him down to the first ledge, where he unzipped the bag and produced a spotting scope, weather meter and handheld targeting computer. He set his rifle down beside him and brought the scope to his eye, getting comfortable.

_Whump._

Price rummaged through the case, taking stock of the remaining contents: a partially full box of bullets, rifle magazines, a pad and some pencils, a cleaning kit, a bottle of water and a couple of protein bars.

_Thud._

He ripped one open, taking a bite, and began pushing bullets into a magazine.

"Hey," Buzz said with a lift of his chin at Price. "You mind?"

Without missing a beat, Price tossed him the other protein bar. Catching it, Buzz grunted in acknowledgment. He brought the scope back up as he chewed, doing a slow sweep of the landscape across the river.

"Hmm...good boys. They've got the mortar set up out of sight, behind a small ridge. I see their pickup truck parked down there, but other than their spotter running out to see how they did, I only get a quick peek at anybody in between a couple mounds of dirt." He squinted, scanning the surrounding area, and gave a low rumble of laughter. "Well, well...what do we have here?"

Price clicked the magazine into place and stood up, cradling the heavy Intervention in his arms. "What's that?"

"Lens flare. Just located our snipers. Just above and to the right of the mortar team. Two hunkered down next to a tree, looks like Dragunovs. That'll do for starters." He set the scope down and held the whirring weather meter aloft, taking a wind reading. Using its tiny plastic stylus, he punched the result into the targeting computer. "Now," he said, nodding toward the ledge below him and turning back to Price with a satisfied smile. "If you would be so kind."

* * *

Price sat sideways and cross-legged on the rocky outcropping, which was barely large enough to accommodate both him and the rifle. The gun was propped on a tree branch and supported with the folded-up rifle case. Their position was now diagonal to their targets, all of whom were still focused on the OP straight ahead of them.

"Look for the red pickup truck at your eight-o-clock, and keep going northeast. Immediately to the left of the crooked tree. 750 meters. Give it two to the right."

"I see them." Price twisted the scope's windage drum, feeling the two clicks, the stock warm against his cheek. The two dark-haired, bearded snipers lay on an outcropping not unlike their own, partially concealed beneath the tree branches, their plain brown clothing blending in with the dirt. One of them slowly elbowed his way backward from his rifle and eased down the back side of the ridge, leaving only the top of his head visible. "The one on the left just stood up."

"Break time," Buzz observed. Price focused on the prone shooter.

The scope's reticle zigzagged over the man's face, rising and falling with Price's breathing. The enemy sniper was a picture of stillness, his expression one of utter concentration and intent, still seeking targets up by the rock wall. Price's chest was thumping. He was still in fight-or-flight mode from his close shave; it wasn't like he'd never done this before. Annoyed with himself, he took some deep breaths, willing his heartbeat to slow down, and it obeyed.

_Breathe._

Price took a deep inhale, finger barely resting on the trigger. He was ready. The reticle once again alighted on the man's face.

_Slow is smooth and smooth is fast._

A slow exhale, a gentle squeeze. The buttstock slammed into his shoulder with an echoed _CRACK_. Inhale.

With a pink burst, the body dropped facedown in a ragdoll jumble. He released pressure, feeling the click of the trigger reset beneath his finger.

"Hit." Buzz's voice was without emotion.

With a twist and a jerk of Price's hand, the empty bullet casing spun out in a glittering, smoking arc. He settled his finger back on the trigger.

The remaining man ran over to investigate. Decent shooters maybe, but seasoned fighters – not so much. Price allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Squeeze. A punch in the shoulder.

The man staggered, hands on his chest. He fell writhing to his knees alongside his dead comrade, suffering the fate they had just attempted to exact on Buzz.

"Hit. A little rusty, huh?"

"Shut up."

Price racked the bolt and took a followup shot. The man folded over backwards and didn't move again.

"Nice. I don't think they'll be shooting at us again for a while," said Buzz. "Now about that mortar team..."

On scope, both men slowly panned in a multicolored blur, attempting to get a glimpse of the men gathered around the mortar tube.

A white streak plunged to Earth and smote the mortarmen like a bolt of lightning. A fountain of dirt, rock and tree branches burst into the air, along with a ragged swirl of what used to be human. The mountains shook with the sound of thunder.

They looked at one another in momentary disbelief. Buzz's expression was a mixture of amusement and embarrassment.

"Oops."

Startled, he reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a vibrating satellite phone. He glanced at the screen, extending its thick antenna. "Yeah? Nice one, good effect on – " The smile faded. Price was quickly learning that this was not a good thing.

It got worse. "How many?" For the first time, Price saw the man's face growing pale beneath his sunburn. His voice lowered to a whisper, which to Price sounded an alarm. "Well see what you can do." Thumbing the red button, he turned to Price. "We've got company. Oracle just spotted seven foot-mobiles coming up on our six. They're too close to strike with the drone, and air support's at least half an hour away. We gotta move."

Price lowered his voice in response. "Move where?" The only path was the one behind them, a steep rocky plunge was directly in front.

"Hug the cliff face, they're almost on top of us!"

Using tree roots as handholds, the two eased down over the edge, stashing their rifles and equipment beneath the rocky shelf. Their hearts pounded with both urgency and the knowledge that a bad step or snagged gear could spell disaster.

"They're just seeing them now?" Price hissed. He sidestepped his way out over the precipice, watching gravel spill between his feet and tumble out of sight.

"The blanket-party boys, probably. Who knows."

They heard voices, growing louder by the second. They pressed themselves flat against the rock, heads craned sideways, eyes glued to the cliff edge above them. If the enemy infantrymen had been close enough, then they would have heard the Intervention despite its suppressor.

Price froze – a pair of tattered Nikes and baggy gray pant legs appeared directly over Buzz's head. The Texan's stiff posture indicated that yes, he was very much aware of that. Body odor alone announced the strangers' presence. Price didn't recognize the language, but their hushed tones told him enough. These men were hunting them. Their plan was now obvious: inflict casualties with sniper fire, follow up with mortars to cause chaos and division, then track down the survivors. Were they just out to kill them, or would they drag them off to some other fate? Kamarov had told him a few war stories; this was the same country that saw captured Soviets left tied to trees, skinned alive and covered with flies. Hardly daring to breathe, Price watched Buzz's hand slowly drift to his hip, unsnapping the thumb break on his holster.

The flesh of his scalp crawled. A stream of crumbling dirt rained down over his shoulders and pattered against his hat, spilling down over the brim. Someone was standing over him too. His fingers curled around the grip of his own pistol...


	12. Coursing

**_LEGAL DISCLAIMER: _**_MacTavish, Price, Nikolai, Kamarov and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty: Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Sledgehammer/Activision – not mine. A big thank you to everyone who brought those games and characters to us, and for letting me take them on a joyride._

**_WARNING: _**_**Contains violence, gore, bilingual profanity, and a dramatized portrayal of mine clearance. **_

___**May contain non-English language mistakes **__**(sorry). **__**This story is an AU that picks up where MW2 left off. MacMillian is dead and Operation Kingfish never happened.**_

_**A/N: **I started this midlife crisis writing experiment two years ago, and would have never gotten this far without my beta, **Sassy Satsuma**. I am so very grateful for all her inspiration and encouragement, and for sticking with me for over a year now! This chapter, and TD itself, wouldn't be the same without the awesome teamwork. With her help, I hope to see it through to the end. My greatest challenges with this story still lie ahead._

_Thanks again to **Brooding Pariah** for answering my questions about Pashtun names and culture, and to **Stoneface** and **Ordnance** for chatting with me about Kamarov, though he is currently Sir-Not-Appearing-in-this-Chapter. ;-) The chapter got too big, so I had to break it up. This means the next update won't take quite so long. Thank you all, along with **CherryFlake **and **Twin A 07, **for your reviews as well! They are very much appreciated._

_**THE STORY SO FAR: **Nikolai evacuates Soap and Price to a Loyalist base in Eastern Afghanistan, where Soap receives lifesaving medical attention. Price is reunited with Kamarov, who is involved in planning a coup to retake Russia from the Ultranationalists and ultimately end the war. Price discovers that this involves the assistance of, among others, the CIA and US Special Forces – the last thing Price and Soap need, given their fugitive status. Though the Americans don't yet appear to be aware of the kill/capture order, they soon will be. Since Soap is in no condition to go anywhere, Price stays despite the risks, unwilling to leave him behind._

_As Soap recovers, Price tells him of his time in the gulag. Price had gone missing after an earlier TF 141 mission went wrong, and he reveals why: he'd been abducted by Ultranationalists in Prague. It had been a setup, a betrayal by Shepherd in order to secure Makarov's cooperation for the airport attack. Price was then imprisoned in Petropavlovsk to await the arrival of Makarov, who was making good on his vow to eliminate everyone involved with the death of Zhakaev, including the murder of Captain MacMillan, Price's own capture and torture, and the intent to do the same to Soap. With surprising candor, Price admits that he had given up hope, and had been contemplating suicide rather than face the slow agonizing death that was planned for him._

_Trying to maintain their cover story of being military contractors, Price accompanies a group of Loyalists and CIA operatives to an observation post. They are sniped at and subsequently mortared by militiamen from the New Dawn of Afghanistan, who don't appreciate their presence. Nikolai is wounded, and the group is separated. Price and one of the CIA men, Buzz, find themselves unlikely allies in an attempt to take out the enemy snipers. They succeed only to become trapped on a hillside, with NDA infantrymen above and a steep drop-off below._

* * *

Caught in the open, dead to rights. All they could do was stand stock-still and wide-eyed, like rabbits.

Each man gripped his pistol, resisting the urge to draw it from the holster. Doing so would attract the attention of their pursuers, who now stood directly over the top of their hiding place. It was a struggle to keep their breathing slow, even and quiet against the pounding of their hearts.

The strangers whispered amongst themselves, sounding alert but not alarmed. After what seemed ages, their footsteps and voices begin to retreat. Price and Buzz waited a few more minutes, then Buzz risked a look over his shoulder at Price.

They shared a cautious exhale. Neither spoke. Both knew better – they didn't know how many, or where, or how far. They began to pick their way back along the cliff face to safety. Reaching the end first, Buzz pulled his M4 from where he'd stashed it. He abruptly flattened back against the natural wall of rock, holding up a clenched fist. Price reacted immediately, squatting down and drawing his pistol, keeping it low to avoid crossing Buzz. He watched Buzz inhaling deeply, flinty eyes fixed on the cliff edge above them. The wind changed, and he caught a whiff too. Someone was still there.

The telltale business end of an AK-47 appeared overhead and swung over to fix on Price, its owner materializing above Buzz once more. He looked to be in his thirties, small and wiry. He wore a traditional black turban and long gray _shalwar kameez, _the tattered Nikes on his feet. His camouflage vest bulged with a couple of spare AK magazines. Dark eyes glittered below a nest of wiry black hair, a smirk partially hidden behind a full beard.

The man spoke, chuckling as he did so.

_Like rabbits, all right, _thought Price. _Just bagged himself two of 'em. _ He wondered if the man had purposely stayed behind after the main group walked away, leading his quarry to believe that they were safe to let their guard down. It was what Price himself would have done.

The words were incomprehensible but the meaning clear as Nike man motioned with the rifle. Price slowly raised his free hand while setting his pistol on the ground, then raised the other. Though it was ill-advised to do so, Price looked him in the eye and held it. There was no fear there, nor quivering excitement. Just experience, and intent.

_Fuck._

Buzz stirred in his peripheral vision. Price didn't dare follow the movement, or take his eyes off his captor. The man's face showed cold satisfaction as he took aim.

Buzz's hand shot up to grab the barrel of the AK. The rifle barked out a string of wild shots, stitching the rock above Price's head. With his free arm wrapped around a loop of exposed tree root, the Texan pulled hard, yanking the man over the edge. The man bicycled his legs in a desperate bid to stop himself, knocking the Intervention from its perch as he fell off the cliff, screaming. He almost dragged Buzz with him, leaving him dangling by one hand and scrabbling to regain purchase. The heavy steel rifle swept into Price, sending his body twisting into empty air.

"PRICE!"

Buzz's shout was the last thing Price heard before a bone-jarring crash to Earth, then he was tumbling in a hissing rockfall of loose shale, enveloped in clouds of choking dust. He rolled and bounced over uneven ground, sharp blows pummeling him on all sides. He managed to get his feet in front of him as he paddled his arms and legs against the rocky current, his descent slowing but still uncontrolled. He squinted against the blinding flurry of dirt and rock fragments to see another steep drop-off looming in front of him. He felt the thud of a blast somewhere below, and he furiously pedaled his heels into the loose ground to try and prevent the inevitable. Small shrubs and trees sped by, snapping in his grasping hands. He was launched again into the air for another crushing landing, then more sliding until solid ground finally greeted him with a cruel burst of white pain, then darkness.

A distant rattle penetrated the eerie silence, followed by a miserable coughing fit stifled by the crook of his bent elbow and the ground; he was lying facedown. Another crackling, echoed burst. Gunfire. The side of his head was warm and wet, the angry throb of fresh injuries heralding his return to consciousness. He heard a moan, and for a moment thought it was coming from him. He gasped, fingers curling into a handful of dirt. Whatever healing he'd accomplished over the last few days had just been undone. Every painful breath was a reminder of that.

He wondered what further damage he'd just taken. If it was bad enough, their journey would be over before it had even started. He'd nearly gotten Soap killed, he _had_ to get him out of here. It couldn't end like this.

_Get your arse up, John!_

How many times had he hauled MacTavish up off the ground? _Pain is only temporary, _he'd lectured him. Now it was time for him to follow his own advice.

_Do it – do it now!_

The gunfire intensified. AKs, punctuated with bursts from an M4 – Buzz, who was now alone against the entire enemy element. That chilling thought and another moan snapped Price to attention. Wincing, he lifted his head. His hat lay just in front of him. He pushed himself up on his forearms with a grunt, reaching for it. His focus shifted, and what he saw in the distance made him stop, his outstretched hand frozen in midair. It was an amputated human leg, still wrapped in a shred of gray fabric, the foot still wearing the now-familiar shoe.

Its former owner was sprawled out a few meters away, surrounded by a corona of loose soil and a pool of dark red mud. He wasn't moving, and his groans were fading as quickly as he was. With growing dismay, Price noticed that the red arterial spray on the stones next to the man almost matched the color of other, deliberately painted rocks encircling the area in which they both lay. It was a warning that he recognized at once.

His gaze swept slowly backward and inward, looking for anything out of place, until he registered an unusual shape in the dirt beneath his face; a half-round edge that interrupted the natural contours of what appeared to be an unpaved road. He eased back into his original position, shaking with the effort it took to move with such painstaking slowness.

He had just landed in a minefield.

He looked again, seeing suspicious lumps and depressions on all sides. He could have dismissed some of this as imaginary, except one clearly exposed something dull and black.

The gunfire was getting louder, the battle making its way down the hillside. Perfect. Here he was, unarmed, and...looking at the man in front of him, Price swept the inevitable gallows humor aside with a sigh. If he tried to do a runner, he stood an excellent chance of being blown apart. Nike man was a recently-living testament to the fact that what was buried in this ring of red-painted stones still worked. So now what?

Following what sounded like a grenade, the M4 announced itself again. Buzz was still alive, and getting closer. The AKs answered.

A drawling shout rained down from above. "Price! Don't move – that place is full of landmines!"

Unable to look up at him, Price settled for plopping his head back down on his forearm. _Thanks for the heads-up._

It wasn't long before the man himself appeared, his reddened face streaked with dust and sweat. "Still in one piece, I see." Buzz glanced at the body of Nike man. "_Heh_, unlike some people." He took up a position behind a boulder, ready to fire on the path he'd just taken downhill.

"An astute observation, I could say the same of you," Price mumbled into the crook of his arm.

Looking through his M4's holographic sight, Buzz's eyes flicked back momentarily to Price. "Man, you look like a bug on a windshield. Y'all right, can you move?"

A weak chuckle ended as a cough. "Cheers," said Price, his eyes clamped shut against the pain, mouth pressed into a thin line. "Yeah, I think so."

"Good. So don't."

"Get me the hell out of here."

"Yeah...well..." As Buzz's voice trailed off, the entire hillside came alive with AK fire. It couldn't possibly all be from the small party of men they'd seen. He sounded almost embarrassed in his reluctance. "...there's that. The Russians are on their asses now, the problem with that being that they might flush them back down on top of us. You don't have a weapon, do you?"

"No."

"Under the circumstances, tossing you one is pretty much out of the question. On top of that," he said, eyeballing the level window on his rifle's magazine and ejecting the one from his pistol for a quick look. "I'm almost dry."

The gunfire was now joined by a new sound: the throaty snort of a four-stroke engine, possibly an approaching motorbike. The noise multiplied – there were more than one. Were these enemy reinforcements? The two men looked at each other in alarm.

The engine noise grew louder. Price was silent for a moment. Visions of skinned Soviet corpses flashed through his mind once again, along with other, even less savory images. "Are there at least enough left for us?"

Buzz, for once, had no witty comeback for that – just a small, wry smile. "Scout's honor. If it comes down to that, I promise your death will not be televised."

_Be blown up by a landmine. Capture, torture and eventual killing by enemies. Simply shot by enemies, or shot by friendlies. Brilliant list of choices. Maybe I should have listened to my father after all._

The noise now drowned out all else. A quad flew up over the crest of the hill, squatting onto its shocks as it landed on the roadbed ahead of them. The rider gunned the throttle and turned hard, spinning the machine halfway around in a wave of gravel, then skidded to a stop at the edge of the minefield. He cut the engine and dismounted. Unslinging an AK-74 from his back, he brought it to his shoulder and approached Price. The remaining engine noise, presumably belonging to more quads, rose from below, peppered by the sounds of continuing gunfire above.

The man swept his surroundings with the rifle. He gave a momentary glance uphill, not seeing Buzz crouched down behind his boulder. He advanced with smooth strides, heel-toe-heel, eyes and gunsights moving as one. This was a trained soldier, not some ragtag militiaman. Yet between his ride and his clothing, he wasn't anyone's regular military either. A shemagh was wrapped around his head and face. His long sleeved, button-down shirt was covered with a multipocketed vest, the type often favored by journalists. He wore olive-drab combat trousers, and hiking boots that were in reasonably good shape.

The man propped a foot atop one of the painted rocks, leaning in to get a better look at Nike man's remains. When he'd had his fill, he followed the border of red stones to stand near Price.

_If you're going to make a move, Buzz, now's the time._

The eyes peering from between the folds of checkered fabric were a startling pale green, not unusual in this part of the world. Slinging the rifle back over his shoulder, the man pulled the scarf from his face. The stranger was of a medium height and build, neither white nor particularly dark-skinned. He looked to be around Soap's age, with a tousled mop of black wavy hair and a short growth of beard. He squatted down, regarding Price with a baleful stare, until he spoke in an accent identical to Price's own.

"All right, mate. You seem to be in a bit of a pickle."

"Armaan," Buzz called, revealing his presence.

The man stood to face him, throwing up his hands in mock outrage. "You? What are you doing out here?" He looked back over his shoulder to Price as if complaining to a confidant: "There goes the neighborhood."

Buzz grinned, shaking his hand. "Just the man we need. Our friend here could use some of your magic."

Armaan mopped his brow with the shemagh and knotted it loosely around his neck. "Don't worry," he said, flashing a smile at Price. "The doctor is in."

The gunfire had ceased, though the sound of approaching engines was getting louder. "Sounds like the wagons are circling," said Buzz. He turned to wander toward the road's edge for confirmation.

"Too right," replied Armaan, turning back to Price and squatting back down to speak to him. He eyed the crumpled boonie hat and frowned. "Do I know you?"

Price's eyes narrowed. "No." Armaan's eyebrows shot up.

The quads arrived, bearing a pack of large, scruffy, bearded men. Like the locals, they wore _patou _shawls, vests and mushroom-like woolen _pakol _hats, but that was where the similarities ended. Most were white, and carried customized M4s. A closer look revealed knee pads, body armor and other tactical gear. When they cut the engines, their accents told the rest of the story. It was a sound Price had dreaded hearing, and now here it was.

"The Americans – SEALs?" Price lowered his voice, keeping an eye on the group. He already knew the answer.

Armaan hesitated before answering. "Delta." The green eyes bored into Price. "Something tells me your current predicament isn't your biggest worry right now," he muttered. "But one disaster at a time." He stood and turned back to his quad and the various bags strapped to it, fetching a metal detector. "Right." He began to wave it over the edge of the minefield.

The resulting squeals of the detector were numerous. There was no clear path for Price to follow.

Armaan sighed. "Nothing's easy, is it?" He went back to his bags and returned with a slim, plastic-handled metal rod, about half a meter in length. Back at his starting point, he kneeled and set to work, carefully and methodically probing the dirt. "I don't suppose I need to stress the importance of keeping still, so you don't turn us both into baked beans, yeah?"

Price glared over the horizon of his forearm. Unfazed, Armaan barely looked at him. "I'll take those fearsome daggers as a 'negative'."

Buzz was in deep conversation with some of the new arrivals. A couple of the newcomers broke away from the group, rifles up, scanning the surroundings. Another spoke into his radio, then raised his voice to relay the message.

"All right. Russians are mopping up. Who's hungry?"

There was a rough chorus of agreement. The radio man approached Price and Armaan, whom thus far had unearthed a few pieces of shrapnel and an old can. The man was tall and broad, with shaggy shoulder-length auburn hair and an impressive beard. He observed the work in silence, pulling out a green tin of chewing tobacco and stuffing a pinch into his lip. It muffled his speech.

"Price?"

Price sighed into the crook of his arm, where he'd attempted to shield his face from the sun already burning his scalp. Buzz had undoubtedly told them. Between the Delta/SAS relationship and his past work as an instructor, he'd never had a chance of concealing his identity anyway, not in this crowd. His reputation in the SF community alone could have done him in, both for his past exploits and the special pleasure he'd taken in 'welcoming' trainees to Credenhill.

He squinted an eye up from beneath the shade of his upraised hand. "Yeah."

"I'm Hagar."

Price couldn't help himself. "Hagar?"

"Yeah...you know, like Hagar the Horrible?" Price gave him a blank look. The man tried again. "The viking in the comic strip? No? C'mon, don't you read the funny pages?"

Armaan paused as his probe struck something substantial. "Hmm...what's this, then?" He drew his knife.

"Ah. Well," Hagar began his retreat toward the rest of the group, who were gathered at a safe distance. He smirked and threw Price a quick wave. "I'll just be over here."

Using his blade, Armaan dug an outline around the object, then casually pulled the dirty green puck from its hole. Price did his best not to cringe.

"PMN," Armaan murmured, sounding satisfied. "The common scourge." He removed the booster, detonator and firing pin, set the pieces aside, and resumed probing. Eyeing the now-inert mine, Price let out the breath he'd been holding.

Armaan spared him a brief glance, then returned his full attention to his task. "Still with me? Not feeling itchy, I hope?" Amusement flickered across his face at Price's ill-tempered grunt.

Time passed, with the occasional inquiry from Buzz and the Americans. "We're not getting any younger, you know," one said.

"Or any less of a target," another man added. They'd set up a perimeter, taking cover where they could. A few scoped out the surrounding high ground, guided over the radio by those monitoring the Predator's video feed.

"Well, I could employ the official Afghan method and start heaving rocks in there, but I don't think he'd go for that," Armaan replied.

He picked his way toward Price, probing for buried objects and carefully excavating them with his knife. This slow process was giving Price entirely too much time to think about what he shouldn't. Like the sweat breaking out on his burning forehead, and the sticky streaks of blood on his face that were drying into a crust, just as an ooze of fresh bleeding followed the same trickling course. The adrenalin rush had committed its usual deceit, briefly sheltering him from the worst of his pain before abandoning him to it. Between the position he was stuck in and the agony in his ribs, he was having difficulty breathing. It was getting worse. Had he punctured a lung this time?

_Stay calm, focus on something else. _

Like what, the potential instability of aging mines laid by the Soviets? Armaan appeared unconcerned, he wasn't even wearing any protective gear. Price was unsure if that meant confidence, arrogance or outright insanity. Though he was curious about him, Price knew better than to try engaging Armaan in conversation, and the man offered none.

Armaan found and disarmed another mine, then gave the area another sweep with the metal detector. Dread washed over Price when he heard the squeal, though he'd expected it. It was the one buried practically under his nose. "One more," said Armaan. Price squinted at him through the bright sunlight. Armaan carefully leaned over, plucked the hat from the ground and settled it atop Price's head. "All right?" Price, now better able to look back at him, nodded.

Price held his breath again while Armaan chipped away at the dirt, then had to let it out when he grew dizzy. He panted in shallow breaths, the pain and apprehension keeping him from the deep gulp of air that he needed. A bead of sweat ran down and dangled from the tip of his nose. Armaan, though still not looking at him, was paying attention. "Just hold on, almost got it. _Don't move," _he growled, the attempt at reassurance becoming stern. "We've gotten this far, now don't go cocking up the endgame."

Finally, Armaan set the mine and its parts aside, then looked at Price. "Okay, watch your step," he said, eyes flashing in warning again. "If you're feeling wobbly, you'd best tell me now."

His jaw set into a determined mask, Price gripped Armaan's offered hand and pushed himself off the ground. His face creased in discomfort, a groan escaping despite his best efforts as he stiffly stood up and took slow, careful steps.

"Cheer up, mate. Your head's still attached, though this _is _Afghanistan and the day's not over yet," said Armaan. Price shrugged off his assistance and staggered past the border of red stones, leaving him standing amid a ruin of overturned earth and scrap metal. Armaan's mild offense dissipated in a wry chuckle at Price's retreating back. "You're welcome."

Hagar spat and lifted an eyebrow at Price's torn clothing. "I hear that air-conditioned pants are all the rage these days." He leaned to one side, getting a good look. "Looks like you just had yourself a literal ass-beating."

"So why don't you kiss it and make it better?" The eruption of laughter was drowned out by the sputter of engines starting up.

The Delta man's mocking smirk fell when he spotted something lying in the roadside ditch. It was the Intervention. He stooped to pick it up, bringing an eye to the very expensive and now-shattered scope. "Ohh," he moaned. "See, now this is why we can't have nice things." He shoved the gun into a rack bolted to the side of the ATV, strapped it down and climbed aboard, patting the seat behind him. "C'mon old timer," he said, giving Price a tobacco-stained grin. "You're ridin' bitch with me."

Price was far too tired and sore to give that the response that it deserved. He clambered up behind him without a word. Hagar thumbed the throttle, and Price's fingers gripped the rack just in time to prevent himself from being thrown over backward. With a dusty roar, they were gone.

* * *

A group of Loyalists were waiting by the bunker's southern entrance, Sergei and Bogdan among them. They zigzagged through the crowd of men dismounting from their vehicles. Hagar was already on foot, digging through the bags. Price still sat hunched over on the back of the quad, his face and body tense. The bumpy ride had added yet more insult to injury. He felt like shit, and could only imagine how he looked. What he could see of himself was spattered with mud, which accented the stiff collage of dried blood and dirt on his clothes.

"Their scouts are dead, but the _dukhi _will soon be back. They always are," Sergei said, helping Price to slowly climb down. He looked troubled. "This time was different – some of them had night vision gear."

"We found another cache, more of the same," said Bogdan, moving to Price's other side to help.

"Seems these boys have some big plans," Buzz frowned. His eyes narrowed. "I say it's time we oblige them." There were nods from some of the men. He looked over at Price. "You gonna make it?"

Price nodded, wincing, his arms draped over the Russians' shoulders.

"Infirmary," said Sergei. "Let's go."

"No argument here," Price gasped.

That seemed to satisfy Buzz, who turned back to the Delta group. "Dinner, then hot wash in an hour," he said.

Leaning heavily on Sergei and Bogdan, Price limped down the corridor. Once the voices had faded and they'd turned the corner, Price straightened, freeing himself from their support, and strode forward toward the infirmary. With a sideways glance at each other, the Russians picked up their pace to match his.

* * *

Price arrived to find Soap brooding in a chair at Nikolai's bedside, his IV line trailing to the pole behind him. A striped brown patou was draped across MacTavish's shoulders. His head was bowed, his fingers kneading the stubble of beard on his chin. Nikolai's face was relaxed in sleep. Bandages encircled his forehead and jaw, securing the thick white dressing that padded the side of his head. The short plastic stub of an IV lock was taped to the back of his hand, which rested on the slowly rising and falling blanket.

Soap's eyes widened when he looked up and saw the filthy battered state that Price was in. He opened his mouth to speak, but Price beat him to it.

"Looks like we're three for three, quite the track record. How is he?"

"Misha says he's going be all right. Nasty headache, though. Just fell asleep about 20 minutes ago." MacTavish's furrowed brow had relaxed, and now his mouth twitched with a poor attempt to suppress a grin. "Looks like somebody got the good news, but I'm not sure who. You sort out your sniper problem, Old Man?"

"How long have you known me?"

Soap chuckled and hissed in pain, clutching his abdomen.

Price gave a snort of amusement. "Then the CIA brought their Predator to the party – it was a real blowout." He took a quick visual assessment of MacTavish. Though it was good to see him sitting upright, Soap looked haggard. He'd lost weight. "And what about you?" Price asked.

Soap sighed. "Sore, tired of being tired. Bored out of my mind, although I have been keeping on top of the latest in Russian fashion," he nodded his head back toward a pile of Sergei's magazines on his bedside table. He closed his eyes, sagging back in his chair. "...and I'm starving."

"Is that right?" Price raised his eyebrows at that. "Sounds like you're ready to travel." He glanced over his shoulder. "It's getting crowded around here."

Soap's face hardened into the familiar determined look. "I'm ready to do what I have to." His gaze fell. "Though I'm not so sure about my tour guide."

Price looked down. Red drops speckled the floor next to his muddy boots, and Price followed them up to the blood-soaked shreds of his sleeve and glove. That explained the stinging he'd been ignoring – some of it, anyway. He looked at what remained of his fatigue jacket. He didn't want to think about what would have happened if the morning's weather had been warmer.

As for MacTavish's doubts, Price had a few of his own, though Soap's will wasn't one of them. His stomach churned. Buzz was right, there truly was no rest for the weary.

Nikolai groaned, throwing his arm across his tightly-closed eyes, avoiding the sore side of his head. "Do the two of you ever shut up?" He put his pillow over his face.

Price brightened at the prospect of some karmic payback. "Morning, sunshine. You look like you could use a coffee."

The voice beneath the pillow was muffled. "_Po'shyol 'na hui."_

Soap's smile now threatened to split his bruised face. Price grinned, though he spared himself the discomfort of a laugh. "I'd say he begs to differ." Since Nikolai's curt reply was unlike him, Price decided that was enough for now. Besides, he had to save some wind-up opportunities for later.

So much for that. Kamarov swept into the room, Misha beside him. He spoke at full volume, eliciting another groan from beneath the pillow. "It was in his ear. Once the surgeon pulled it out and saw light on the other side, he knew everything was back to normal." The comment from the pillow was unintelligible. Kamarov chuckled, then quieted as he took in the sight of Price's ragged appearance.

"He'll be up in a day or so. Until then, we need to keep him quiet and watch for complications," said Misha, who proceeded to look Price up and down. "Like we tried to do with you."

"I'm okay."

"Oh yes – how could we forget," said Misha, rolling his eyes. He pulled away the pillow, receiving a squawk of protest, and turned Nikolai's wincing face aside in order to examine the dressing. "Sasha," he barked.

Kamarov shook his head with a smile. "Some things never change." He shot a knowing glance at Misha.

Sasha appeared next to Price and grasped Price's dripping hand, inspecting the wound. "Take care of that," said Misha. "He's making a mess of the place."

Sasha nodded his head towards the door. "_Po'shyol,"_ he grunted, followed by more Russian. To Price's surprise, he switched to broken English. "He _is _mess."

"Price," said Kamarov. "When you're all patched up," he wrinkled his nose "...and cleaned up, I'll be in my office. We have much to discuss."

Price watched Misha replace Nikolai's pillow and help him get settled. He met Kamarov's eyes with a frown. "That we do."

"Well if that's all decided, then everyone who isn't a patient here – out. They both need rest," said Misha.

Soap scowled up at him. "What I need is food."

That was music to Price's ears, easing his annoyance at the dour medic herding him into a nearby exam area. At last, something else was starting to resemble normalcy.


	13. The Crow

_**LEGAL DISCLAIMER:** MacTavish, Price, Nikolai and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty:Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games._

_**This story is an AU, in which Operation Kingfish never happened. Apologies for any Russian language mistakes.  
**_

_**Contains scenes of torture and full-spectrum profanity.  
**_

_**A/N: **I debated quite a while on whether I should even post the second half of this chapter at all. The muse was extremely vocal about it, however, and wouldn't be denied. So I have tweaked parts of previous chapters to better fit this one. Nothing major, just little things here and there, although I did give the first few a style makeover, thus a longer __delay __than I thought :-S  
_

_In case you haven't noticed already, the story's rating has been changed to M, which it really should have been all along. I had tried to maintain a T rating due to the site's policy of not including M-rated stories in the default search, which results in stories getting missed by casual users. They come to this section and see a listing of K-T only. I missed reading a few good stories at first, due to that. (Update soon, **Ordnance**?)  
_

_Since this story was never for younger readers and overall traffic is down_ _anyway_,_ it's going under the radar. The upside of this is now Price can say whatever he likes! So for those of you still reading (both of you, haha) you might want to use the story alert feature, since this isn't going to show up by default on the front page anymore.  
_

_As ever, massive amounts of love to my awesome beta, **Sassy Satsuma. **Thanks everyone for your reviews/alerts/favorites! Hearing from you means a lot - some of your PMs and reviews have found their way into the story...  
_

* * *

Price's hair was clean but still damp, beneath the hat that was still dirty. The quick shower had been both a blessing and a curse; draining away some of the ache while leaving every fresh cut and bruise stinging. As he picked his way through an obstacle course of boxes in the corridor, the fabric of the clean long-sleeved gray t-shirt and khaki combat trousers was starting to stick to him – the latest insults to his skin were scabbing over. Fresh white bandages swathed his forearm and wrist, looping around his thumb. The gash on his arm, like the one on his scalp, had required stitches.

Less than an hour before in the infirmary, a paper drape protecting his eyes from both the bright light and what Sasha was doing, Price had said little. He'd sought to occupy his mind with anything other than the present, occasionally brought back to it by the tug of sutures in numb flesh. Sasha's repertoire of English was minimal, but Misha had come in once he was finished with Soap and Nikolai. As Price had feared, Nikolai wouldn't be coming with them. Misha had admitted that while Nikolai was doing well, his wound put him at risk for bleeding into his head; any exertion right now could prove deadly. Price had offered affirmative mumbles at the appropriate times, all while resisting the urge to simply roll off the table and leave. When they'd finally finished, he'd felt their eyes following him on his way out.

He'd been shocked when he'd wiped away the steam from the mirror. What a state he was in. The mottled compilation of bruises and scabs on his face continued down his torso, culminating in a large bloom of purple on his left side. He could still count his ribs easily. While Price had never been one for tattoos, no ink was needed to tell his story - not after the years had carved it in scar tissue: crooked, puckered marks from injuries, straight lines from repairing them. Now fresh pink scars had joined the faded white ones; Makarov's men had left their signature as well. The fog hadn't yet fully reclaimed the image before he'd chosen to look away rather than drive his fist into the glass.

A handful of Loyalist soldiers were busy with the contents of the crates and pallets stacked in the hallway outside the office. Price stepped around them to find Kamarov waiting for him. After closing the door behind them, Kamarov motioned toward a plate of food sitting on the desk. After settling himself into the swivel chair, Price tore into it without bothering to ask what it was.

After watching Price eat for a few minutes, Kamarov lit a cigarette, snapping his lighter shut with a _clink_. "I've arranged for your escort. Traveling at night is, of course, out of the question. You'll leave at first light and be at the safe house by late afternoon."

Price, his mouth full, nodded. The sharp scent of cloves filled the room, making him glad he was nearly finished eating.

"Don't worry about Nikolai, we'll take good care of him. It's his greatest asset, you know – his thick skull." Kamarov rapped his knuckles against the side of his own head, smiling.

Price's shoulders shook with a huff as his eyebrows shot up. _You've got that right, mate._

"He'll be back at the safe house with you before you know it. Now as for you," Kamarov said, indicating a cot in the corner. "You have to get some rest while you can. My men will be outside that door for hours."

Price swallowed the last of his meal. The back of his bandaged hand was almost to his lips when he caught himself, awkwardly wiping his mouth with his left hand instead. "Nothing's been said to you, I take it?"

Just outside the beam of the ceiling's single cage lamp, Kamarov was shrouded in shadows, the crown of his thick reddish-blond hair gleaming, encircled in hazy blue rings of smoke. "No, not yet. And it wouldn't anyway, they know our history. It doesn't matter. The Americans won't make their move here. They can't afford it – they need us more than we need them," he said.

_As much as I'd like to believe that, I don't – not for a second. _

A sudden orange glow from the cigarette penetrated the darkness, smoke swirling in baroque eddies as Kamarov stepped into the cone of light. He pulled a silver flask from his pocket and after taking a swig, offered it.

Earlier in the infirmary, Price had refused a shot of morphine. He needed to keep a clear head, he'd told them. While that had been true - more or less - he was now regretting that decision. He took the flask and hissed at the sting of the alcohol on his split lip. Oban 14 it definitely wasn't. However, after the first harsh swallow burned its way down, the vodka left soothing warmth in its wake, relaxing him. He cautiously leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on a box. They passed the flask back and forth a few times until Price sighed, closing his eyes. Kamarov was correct; he had to get his head down.

Kamarov sat on the edge of the desk, the cigarette smoldering between two fingers. His eyes roved the cluttered office, remembering. "When we last fought together, how could we ever imagine that in five years we'd both be wanted men?"

Price opened his eyes again with a shrug. "Guess I didn't think I'd live that long."

"We didn't think you were going to live at all. You weren't awake for it, but I came to see you in the hospital. You were in a bad way, my friend." Kamarov shook his head. "MacTavish didn't want to leave without you, but the doctors refused to clear you for transport. He was finally ordered onto the plane, not knowing if he'd see you again."

Price frowned. His recovery had been long and painful, starting with the truth he'd been avoiding: his time with the SAS was over. After 17 years, his injuries had finished it. When the Russians finally did put him on the plane home, he'd been thankful for the sedative the flight nurse gave him. After being transferred to the military hospital in Birmingham, he'd spent the first week just lying there, numb from both the pain meds and the regret of his career not having ended on his own terms.

_Enough of that self-pitying bollocks – that's the bloody alcohol talking__. _Disgusted, he pushed the memory aside and forced a thin smile.

"Not just wanted men. Kamarov the revolutionary?" He chuckled, this time with genuine mirth. When they'd first met, Price had been pretty sure that family connections were the only thing standing between Kamarov and one of the Russian Army's dreaded penal battalions. "Who could have seen that one?"

Kamarov grinned. "Certainly not me."

"I never took you for an idealist."

"You shouldn't, look what we're protecting," Kamarov said dryly. "I was, though – once, as you were." He took a drag on his cigarette, his gaze flicking downward before looking Price in the eye. "We've both done things we weren't proud of. Could you have come this far without it?"

Price answered with a swallow from the flask. Kamarov continued, a quiet earnesty creeping into his voice.

"I was barely eighteen when I first came here with the Soviet Army. We'd all heard stories. But as we'd waved goodbye to our families, we didn't want to believe we'd just been sentenced to 'death by a thousand cuts'." His eyebrows shot up with the quote. "We thought we were here to protect the Afghans." He snorted. "How noble. Sent without adequate food, clothing or supplies, and not enough men. Our enemies slowly picked us apart while we crumbled from within. I watched good soldiers – men I'd looked up to – reduced to beggars and thieves, drug addicts and murderers. When I could no longer accept what I saw, I chose to stop looking. Most of us did. Finally, we crawled back across the Amu Darya with our tails between our legs."

"Doing what we do, being what we are…it can't begin without belief in something," said Price. "Forged as tools of war by the flames of conviction. Used now, someday set aside…if we survive to outlive our usefulness."

"Set aside," Kamarov said with a bitter smile, taking a drink. "It changed me, so much that Katya no longer recognized the man she'd married." His head dipped, his eyes lowering for a moment. "We were so young. But I was not the only thing that had changed. The country I returned to was not the same one I'd left_. _

"A new openness, people daring to speak out, to dream again. Hope rising from the ashes of a crumbling empire. But all the hope in the world won't put loaves of bread on empty shelves. Those were hard times, Price. But we Russians know a thing or two about survival – and about opportunity. The brutes and highwaymen had gathered under a different banner, and while everyone else struggled, they rose to vast wealth. Feeding on a fragile economy like cancer until the country's core was rotten, a feast waiting for the worms to arrive, once fear and uncertainty had paved the way."

When Price gripped the offered flask, Kamarov held onto it for a second before letting go. Price was taken aback at the uncharacteristic intensity burning in the former sergeant's eyes.

"And for those of us who'd made it back, what was our place in this new reality? We found out soon enough…and it wasn't what we'd signed up for. I hated what we had become, how far we'd fallen. Like so many, I wanted out, yet what else could I do? I'm a third generation soldier, Price - my grandfather was at Stalingrad. When your chosen path is no longer one of honor, when you can no longer hide from the things you've either done or failed to prevent…what's left after that, other than self-destruction?

"I wish we could have met at a different time, so that wasn't how you first knew me. I didn't care anymore, was beyond caring about whether I lived or died - I was in good company there. We'd lost our way…until Zakhaev. It made me proud again to serve the Motherland. That's what I thought I was doing when we went after them. When he went down, it was the best moment of my career." Staring into space, he raised the cigarette to his lips. "And then one day we were patriots, the next day…insurgents." With a wry smile and a sideways glance, he inhaled and let the smoke out in an abrupt blast, like a release of pressure. "It never ceases to amaze…the labels applied to you, and the crimes you're suddenly guilty of when you find yourself on the wrong side of whoever controls the media."

An eyebrow raised, Price smiled coldly into the flask.

"I didn't sweat and bleed all these years to be left on the outside looking in," said Kamarov. "Now _we're_ the extremists, and some of the same men who stood with Zakhaev in Pripyat now sit in the Duma?" Kamarov ground out the cigarette on the desktop, his face hardened with anger. "The State harassed our families, seized our homes and property. Took my grandfather's _dacha _where I used to pick mushrooms as a boy, where I took my wife when we were still together. I just want to go home, Price – finally. It's _my _home. I'm not spending the rest of my days cowering in some sad third world shithole. Are you? What will you do?"

"For now, lie low and heal."

"We can still help you do that. We need men like you, in order to put things right again."

"Are you asking me to join the cause?"

"Think about it. There are a great many Russians who won't stand for this madness. You could help end this war, from the inside. You know it won't stop with America. Others will soon be drawn into the arena." Kamarov paused for a moment, allowing the implications to sink in. "And even if it ended tomorrow, and the DSM were found and the truth uncovered..." His voice softened even as his gaze became more direct. "...Do you think all will be forgiven?"

"Soap's in no condition for that, and at the moment, neither am I," said Price. Though the partial explanation sounded like an excuse, it was best to keep the remainder to himself. He didn't have the energy to debate Kamarov on typical outcomes of a _coup d'état_. For a Russian, such a history lesson would be an insult. Not only that, but Price recalled the fates of other operators who had taken up political causes not their own. They'd wound up languishing in places even more grim than the one he'd just escaped from.

After a short silence, Price straightened in his chair. "What happened at the OP today, you know they were just taking your measure. How much longer are you planning to hole up here?"

"Oh, they'll be back, of course. We are almost ready to pack up and leave anyway. I never want to see this place again - the _dukhi _can have it. The time is coming, Price, and not a moment too soon. After all the broken promises, Russia is going to have the government it deserves at last."

Price tilted the flask, indicating that it was empty. Kamarov pulled a bottle from the desk drawer.

Price's face was warm both with drink and amusement as he read the label. "You mean after all that talk about the Motherland, we've been drinking Finlandia?" Kamarov gave him a sheepish grin and a shrug.

After they finalized the details of the next day's journey, Price wandered over to the cot. More drink and lighter conversation followed, until he eventually nodded off. Though he would remember how he felt at that point, he would never recall what else they'd talked about.

* * *

"_Price."_

_The voice is distorted, like he's deep underwater. It beckons him to the surface._

"_Time to wake up, Price."_

_The voice grows impatient. "Wake up!"_

_A cold splash. He sputters, blinking through a bright, dripping blur. A hand clamps itself around his jaw, wrenching his face toward the familiar voice. "It's about time." The hand drops away. The tall, lanky figure coming into focus is wiping his hands on a towel. Grach._

_Grach hands the towel to a nearby guard and drags a chair right up to Price. He spins it around, straddling it with two exaggerated boot-steps and sits down, smirking. "We're only just getting warmed up." He thinks for a moment. "You know, you've had it pretty good here." He sweeps an arm upward in an expansive gesture. "A room all to yourself...well, you and that rat you're feeding, anyway. In a Russian prison, that's known as luxury accommodations. In the 'Zone', you take turns sleeping, because there simply isn't enough room for all the men in that tiny cell. It's a herd of stinking, diseased, lice-ridden cattle." _

_He stands up, and begins a slow walk around Price's chair. "Do you know what a cell press is?" Price is silent. Grach squats down beside him, his voice low in Price's ear as he nods toward some of the tattooed guards. "They do." One of the men looks at Price with cold, empty eyes. "When you fuck up badly enough, the guards lock you up with a bunch of **zeks** that they have an agreement with. The men in that cell are allowed to do anything they want to you. **Anything**." Grach's voice is almost a whisper, and though Price continues to stare straight ahead, Grach leans in just enough to put a sly smile in an unavoidable corner of Price's vision. "They say it only really hurts the first time."_

_He withdraws behind Price, suddenly clapping him on both shoulders, making him jump. Grach works his thumbs in circles to massage the base of Price's neck. "Oh, don't worry," he chuckles. "That's not for you, you're a VIP." He claps his hand over Price's shoulder once more as he stands up. "Just like MacTavish. As a matter of fact, when Makarov comes and we're all together at last," he says, standing in front of Price once again. "I want you to keep one thing in mind: that everything happening to you will probably happen to him. Depending how it all works out, of course. We might have to - " his eyebrows shoot up. " – **adjust** our approach. Speaking of which, I'm rather disappointed in you, really. You're supposed to be a legend, harder than a coffin nail. But one little handshake and you pass out? **Tsk**." _

_Grach strolls by the table full of tools and medical supplies. "I'll bet you're curious about what some of these things are for," he gives Price a sideways shrug. "...Although some are rather obvious, let's face it." He reaches to straighten some items, lining them up and making sure their labels face outward. "Hmm," he says in a thoughtful pause. "As a medic, I do need to keep up on my skills." He speaks to the guards in Russian. "After all," he says with a nod to his men. "...You're going to need them." The guards close in on Price, several sets of thick arms rendering him immobile, one wrapping around his neck in a chokehold. Another rolls up Price's sleeve, then traps his elbow to forcibly keep his arm straight._

_His head firmly trapped, Price has to look out of the corners of his eyes and over the man's arm to see what Grach is doing. Grach pulls on blue disposable gloves with a snap, and selects a few items from the table. He ties a rubber tourniquet around Price's bicep. Corded veins respond, branching out along the surface of his skin. Grach's mouth turns upward, an eyebrow raised. "Well, will you look at that," he says. Choosing his target, he swabs Price's arm with an alcohol patch and looks up at him, the smile widening. "I see I have your attention now."_

_Grach turns back to the table for the moment, with sounds of tearing tape and paper, and a small plastic **pop**. "Even you know this one," he says, turning around and approaching Price with what looks like a little white dart. Grach kneels down next to him and grasps Price's elbow, pulling the skin taut. Grach pauses for a moment to look at Price, the angiocatheter hovering at a slight angle over the plump bulge of the vein. The sharp steel bevel of the inner needle glitters. Price's nostrils flare._

"_Come on, Price. You've started an IV or two in your time, haven't you? Of course you have. It's a skill every soldier needs to learn." The needle bites into him, its clear plastic hub turning ruby red. Grach advances the needle further and pulls the tourniquet loose. "But it's no good if you don't practice." He presses a fingertip on the end of the catheter to hold it in place while sliding the needle out, then secures it with tape. "There," he pronounces with satisfaction._

_Noticing that Price's breathing has quickened, Grach gives him an indignant glance. "What?" He looks back down. Blood dribbles out of the uncapped end. "Oh," he grins. "What's the matter, Price?" He tilts his head in a mocking rebuke. "You're not getting squeamish on me, are you?" He unwraps an IV lock and twists it on. He wipes away the mess with a gauze square, frowning. Blood still clogs the lock's clear plastic cap and its threads. He offers Price an apologetic look. "Okay, that was a little sloppy. But you have to admit, it was a beautiful stick." He beams. "Still got it. You're right, though – you don't need an actual IV at the moment, but I have to shoot something in there or its going to clog up and be useless." _

_Price's eyes follow Grach's every move. Grach leans over the table's assortment, fingertips drumming the surface in contemplation. "Ah," he says, tearing a syringe from its packaging and selecting one out of many vials. Price can't see the label, and it would be in Cyrillic anyway. But one thing is certain. The vial isn't plastic; it's glass – not a throwaway. It isn't capped – it's been used before. This isn't sterile water or saline. It's a drug. _

"_Whether you're a soldier, a medic...or an artist, you have to practice your craft." He pauses for a moment, hypodermic in hand, to grin at Price. "I'm a little of all of three," he says, uncapping the needle with his teeth. He spits, the plastic cap bouncing on the floor. He turns back to the vial in his hand, inverting it and holding it aloft, drawing out a measure of clear liquid. He holds the syringe up in the dim light, correcting the dose with a sparkling fountain of fine mist._

_The room echoes with the sound of Price's rapid, heavy breathing. He struggles when Grach approaches, and the guards respond by clamping down on him even harder. Price can only watch in horrified fascination as Grach swabs the lock's port and injects the drug, the needle piercing the rubber membrane with a tiny squeak. The red swirls away and disappears, leaving the lock's plastic transparent once more. "That's better," Grach declares. _

_The rules are going out the window. Price breaks the silence, his voice shaking. "What's that?"_

"_Oh – so you **can** speak? Wonder of wonders." Grach stands to drop the syringe in the red plastic sharps container, then picks up a large nylon duffel bag and drops it on the floor next to the chair. He speaks to the guards in Russian and then in English, for Price's benefit. "Let him go." _

_Price looks in disbelief at his newly freed hands, up at the bemused face of the Russian medic, then back down at the IV site stuck in his arm. He reaches for it. "Ah!" Grach says in warning, wagging a finger. "You might not want to do that." _

_Price's hand drifts slowly back to its starting point, his grip tightening around the arms of the chair. He manages to steady his voice this time, his tone flat and even. "What did you just give me?"_

"_Oh," says Grach, his bored tone suggesting a minor detail that he'd neglected. "Succinylcholine."_

_In a single movement, Price launches himself at Grach with a snarl, only to fall short of his mark, staggering. Grach laughs. Price's knees buckle and the room flips sideways, both the ground and the guards rushing at him. Price makes a feeble attempt to fight them but he's lost control of his twitching body, collapsing into their arms. Their stern faces frame his view of the ceiling, which travels above him as they drag him backward, limp hands dangling, legs twisting in unnatural angles as his heels follow, until they deposit him on the cold floor. Grach's face joins the others. _

"_'Sux' for short," he chuckles. "As in 'sucks to be you'."_

_**If there's a Hell, you cunt, I'll be waiting.**_

_Price gasps weakly, then not at all, his remaining breath escaping him in an uncontrolled sigh. The floor is slowly tilting toward his face. Hands grab the sides of his head, righting it, forcing him to see Grach towering over him. _

_**I'm a dead man.** _

_Grach disappears from sight, with sounds of unzipping and unwrapping. "That lock needed to be flushed, and I told you I needed to work on my skills," he says. "If anything, I'm a man of efficiency. Work smarter, not harder." Sounds of clinking metal and a click. _

_**Bastard whatthe******__fuckareyoudoing whyareyoudoingthis_

_Price focuses every shred of his will on something he never had to think about, to no avail. His chest remains motionless, his lungs refusing to expand. Sensing a lack of oxygen, his heart begins to pound with increasing urgency. _

_Grach hovers over him once again. "That stuff works really quickly. Doesn't last that long either..." The smile disappears. "...but long enough." He pauses to glance at his watch, and then tilts his head, studying Price. "How long has it been now – thirty seconds?"_

_His heart hammers like a fist against the prison of his ribcage._

"_When you can't breathe, thirty seconds is a long time, but five minutes?" Grach raises an eyebrow, his expression cold. "An eternity."_

_Before, when they were drowning him, Price was at least still capable of drawing breath. The terror of it comes rushing back at once, engulfing him. Panic screams in his mind, yet he can't make a sound. _

_**Poisonedparalyzedcan'tbreathe whykillmewhataboutMakarov comeonbreathe GodIdon'twanttodielikethis**_

"_You knew what it was as soon as I told you." The smirk creeps back into place. "That's interesting, since you don't look like an anesthetist to me." Grach casually gathers up the various wrappers he'd discarded, crumpling them into a ball. "It's kind of like that cell press – now we can do anything we want to you, and you can't do a damned thing about it."_

_His vision is blurring. Deprived of the ability to blink, Price's eyes are aching, drying out. His pulse roars in his ears, pressure and pain building in his chest._

"_But you've got even more pressing concerns now, don't you? You're about to lose consciousness. In another couple of minutes, the brain damage starts."_

_His heart pounds harder and faster each second. His thoughts are dissolving into a rolling boil of incoherent, panicked babble. _

_Footsteps behind him, a rustle. His head is tilted back to see Grach kneeling behind him now, something steel flashing bright in his hand. The bastard's upside-down face looms over his. Gloved fingers press the side of his neck. "Ahh," sighs Grach, with a small smile. "Like a hummingbird." _

_Grach moves in closer. "You've got me all wrong, Price." He shrugs. "People misunderstand what I do. I'm not a sadist. I'm a seeker - I have to find a way in. Some men are more challenging than others. Yet I always find my way." He shuffles back and forth on his knees, getting comfortable. _

_"Once I'm inside - the metamorphosis, the breaking down of all that he is, I've never taken that for granted. And after all this time, to be one of the few to witness Zakhaev's killers finally brought to justice? It's a privilege, really. This face? It will be one of the last you ever see." He sighs. "You'll forgive me if this seems…forward. We shared something just now, you and I. It's true, I have to save you for Makarov, yes." Grach slowly nods. "But that single defining moment when you lost your edge, when you began to...doubt..." His voice is soft, intimate. "That's all mine."_

_His lips are tingling, stars bursting in his vision._

"_Price, " The blurry face above him draws back, frowning. "You look terrible. All around your mouth there..." Grach points, his face crumpling in distaste. "It's **blue**. Guess I'd better do something."_

_With a few words in Russian from Grach, hands cradle Price's head, keeping it steady. Grach's hand cups Price's chin, opening his mouth. A flash of light blinds his staring eyes. Cold metal slides over his tongue, down his throat, pulling up – pressing against his neck from the inside. A blue-gloved fist fills his vision, gripping a thick steel handle. His mind screams against the intrusion, crying out for its immediate removal. He would fight these men with all his strength, but his hands remain at his sides, palms up in a motionless appeal. _

_Grach's face is suddenly in his, almost eye-to-eye, peering down Price's throat as he manipulates the thing. "Have to be careful here, since everyone will be **so** interested in what you have to say later on," says Grach, his sour breath buffeting Price's face. A wrapper crackles. Price's mental cries double when a plastic tube pokes its way down, tickling the back of his throat. He would cough and gag, except he can't. His normal reflexes have fled. _

_Full sensation remains, however - without mercy. He can do nothing, but feels everything._

_It's too much to process. The panic has reached its apex, now it's joining forces with hypoxia to trigger a final defense. Colors wash away, sounds fade. Numbness begins a slow creep. His mind is drifting, shutting down._

_A pressure deep inside his throat. The hard metal object, followed by some other rigid thing slides away, leaving something stuck in there. A blur of light, shadows hanging over him. A tightening around his face. Voices muttering. Something cold pressing against his chest as it rises with a sudden rush of air. _

_Four men, dressed in Russian urban camouflage and heavy black boots, crouch over the limp body of a prisoner. Except for tinges of cyanosis matching the faded denim of his shirt, now pulled open, the prisoner's bearded face is almost as pale as the strips of tape stuck around his mouth. His blue eyes hold the fixed stare of death, but the men won't allow it. One squeezes a balloon-like rubber bag, forcing breath back into him. Another, a gangly, hawk-faced blond man, leans in especially close, a stethoscope in his ears, listening to make sure the tube has been properly placed. He smiles in self-satisfaction. It is, and the prisoner's heart is still beating, slowing down to a more normal rhythm. _

_Gray mist. Gusts of wind blowing, pounding surf. Sounds of a passing storm._

_Someone is talking, from far away: "Hah, that was a good one too – practice makes perfect. So you won't have to worry. If you stop breathing, I'll be right there to do it for you. See? You're already starting to pink up."_

_Wind howling. Salty air filling his lungs. Waves breaking._

_The distant voice is growing faint. "We've played enough for now. I think I've made my point. Are you listening?" Hands turn his limp head back and forth, as if he were saying 'no'._

"_Look at me..." Someone palms the skin of his forehead, pulling his half-closed eyelids open. It doesn't matter any more. Just a grayish blur now. The voice is barely audible over the sounds of raging wind and the ocean. The waves crash relentlessly on the beach, the tide is coming in._

"_...I won't let you go that easily, Price."_

_Rubbish, blather. It makes no sense, so he ignores it. A foamy sheet of water washes over him, muffling the noise for a moment, then receding. Another stronger wave surges in behind it, enveloping him, firmly dragging him over slick sand into the surf. Yet another, pulling him all the way in, the water closing over his head, silencing the roar. Dull swishing noise that soon fades._

_He sinks further down, into gentle, silent depths._

"Price..."

_Bubbles rising. Water rushing past his ears. Not sure how deep. He feels around with his arms and legs. Nothing to grab, can't touch the bottom._

_The Russians don't notice the prisoner's wiggling fingertips and the reflexive clutching of his hands until it's too late, and each man is forced to dive for control of a flailing limb._

"Wake up."

_He blows the air out of his snorkel slowly, stretching out his arms in powerful strokes, kicking his way toward the surface. Something is wrong. His arms and legs are tangled – trapped. He struggles to free himself. If he doesn't, he'll start inhaling water._

_Bubbling sounds become babbling voices. The previous voice is back, arguing with others in some language he doesn't understand. **"****Zatknis, bliyad!****"** it snarls._

"Price."

_Price grunts with effort, pushing and pulling, but it's no use. Water floods his snorkel. He gags, retching, growing frantic. He fights harder._

"Price! Snap out of it!"

He sucked in a deep breath, filling his lungs at last – he was free! He exploded through the surface, his eyes flying open. He lashed out, almost falling off the cot as a figure leapt out of his reach. Price panted, shaking, his t-shirt damp with sweat, a fist still in the air. He lowered it when he recognized the owner of the voice. Kamarov's startled face came into focus.

"We've got company," said Kamarov. Price tentatively accepted the AK-47 being thrust at him, as if he didn't believe it was real.

Kamarov looked at the floor for a moment. "We thought the terrain surrounding the Northern entrance was impassible. We were wrong."

An alarm began to blare. His face burning, Price leapt up like he'd never been hurt. "Well, then what are we waiting for?" he snapped, busying himself with checking his weapon.

As he watched Price head for the door, Kamarov paused to eradicate the last trace of pity from his expression, then followed him.

* * *

**Amu Darya: **River in Central Asia that was once part of the Soviet border to Afghanistan

_**Dacha**: _Vacation cottage

**Duma: **Lower house of Russian Parliament

**_Dukhi: _**Ghosts/spirits (derogatory)

_**Zatknis, bliyad: **_Equiv of 'shut the fuck up', lit 'shut up, whore'

**_Zek: _**(slang) inmate


	14. Fort Apache

_**LEGAL DISCLAIMER:** MacTavish, Price, Nikolai and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty:Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games._

_**This story is an AU. MacMillian is dead; Operation Kingfish never happened.**_

_**Contains graphic language and violence.**_

_**A/N: **This chapter is quite overdue, I'm afraid, despite the fact that I've probably spent more time writing over the past few months than ever before. I wrote the story's ending, now the trick is to actually get there. Those upcoming challenges I mentioned? This was one of them. Its subject matter made it the most difficult to write, hands down. Though I do try to do my research, a healthy suspension of disbelief is still recommended - a bit of dramatic license is present. Apologies for any (unintentional) military or Russian language mistakes…and for famous last words about chapters arriving sooner. :-/_

_Much love to my busy, bestest beta, **Sassy Satsuma. **When I'm dipping my toe in unfamiliar cultural waters with Price, she makes sure I don't get in over my head. I'm most grateful for that, and for the delightful conversations re: plot and our headcanons.  
_

* * *

Price wheezed, trying to keep up with Kamarov, his pain fading into the familiar background of fight-or-flight. Sergei, Bogdan and a couple of other Loyalists had joined them, all with AKs in hand. The alarm continued to blare. Red lights flashed along the ceiling, bright dots connecting the thick line of ductwork and fluorescent lighting that formed a spine for the curved steel beams of the corridor. Now, as their boots pounded the gray concrete, the wall's evenly spaced warning signs seem to flash at them with increasing urgency as they passed:

_ВНИМАНИЕ…ВНИМАНИЕ…ВНИМАНИЕ…_

When they all burst into the operations room, Price wasn't sure what was more disconcerting: the Predator feed on the video screens, or the fleeting glances he caught from a couple of the shaggy Delta operators gathered around them – just before a look from Buzz caused them to turn their backs again.

"What do we have?" said Kamarov, between breaths.

Except for a few desk lamps, the room was dark. The wash of electronic light from the screens deepened the lines and shadows of their grim faces. "Apparently that terrain isn't quite so impassible after all," said Rev.

"They're coming from out of nowhere," said Buzz. All traces of his usual humor were absent, his eyes appearing gray in the spectral glow.

Onscreen, tiny white figures continued to materialize atop the steep black hillsides surrounding the bunker's HLZ, the one that Price and Soap had arrived from. Kamarov gave him a bitter half-smile. "Why do you think we call them ghosts?"

A sudden white flash in the corner of the screens curved in a lazy spiral, growing to fill them all…

Static.

"Oh look – they have Stingers," Bogdan mumbled sarcastically.

* * *

The black cage of the lift slammed to a stop just as Price and the others reached the top of the stairs. As soon as the door banged open, a few Russians began hefting out green trunk-sized ammo crates. Everyone had divided into three teams, one for each of the bunker's entrances. Price's group was the largest. Now prepared for battle in an eclectic assortment of clothing and kit, they jogged down the angled hall toward the twin blast doors of the northern entrance. He was still winded from their dash to the ops room. Now, between their run up the steel staircase and the heavy ceramic plates in his vest, Price felt like the life would get squeezed out of him before he even made enemy contact.

He didn't have to wait long for a distraction. Angry Russian shouting filled his headset and he heard the two Loyalist heavy machine guns open up outside, sending echoes of thumping chatter rocketing through the small valley.

Leading the pack, Kamarov suddenly halted just before the open doorway, almost causing a pileup. "We've got two men down – snipers on the ridgeline!" He threw up an arm, barring the way. "No - Stop!" Bursts of concrete dust marched across the floor in front of them. Everyone took a step back.

"Sounds like they've got a DshK up on that ridge too, ready to cancel our asses as soon as we pop our heads out," said Hagar. "They've got us buttoned up nicely." He looked at Sergei. "You said some of their dead had NVGs yesterday?"

Sergei nodded – everyone present had a pair of night vision goggles mounted to his helmet.

"You know, they say sunlight is the best disinfectant." Hagar pulled a flash grenade from his vest. "Close enough." He lifted his chin at the sandy-haired, bearded Delta sniper next to him. "Kurt?"

"You got it, boss," Kurt said, gripping his own flashbang in a black-gloved hand.

"So it is." Kamarov spoke some quick Russian into the radio, amid nods of approval. Men crouched against the wall, checking and charging their weapons in a flurry of clicks.

"All right gentlemen," said Hagar. "NVGs off. On my count, we're going to throw these nine-bangers and we're all going to hit the deck outside. We'll stay to the left. Kamarov – your boys got that?"

"Affirmative."

"Just say the word."

"Do it."

Price watched Hagar's grip tighten on the flash grenade; tribal tattoos rippled on the Delta leader's muscular forearm. He hunkered down against the wall behind him, his head craned forward and rifle ready, leg muscles tensed in preparation. His eyes flickered over the group before refocusing on the door, noticing the Americans' patches. On their shoulders they wore one depicting a flaming skull with dice, crossed pistols and four aces. A small one across the back of Hagar's helmet simply said DILLIGAF.

"Three, two, flash out!" Hagar and Kurt flung them out the doors as far as they could and ducked back behind cover.

It was like the finale in a fireworks show. The concussions pounded in Price's chest; brilliant white light strobed through the open doorway, illuminating the downturned faces of the men shielding their eyes. Then he was swept up in a stampede of boots, bodies and rattling gear, outstretched hands groping blindly forward, knocking the wind out of himself when he slammed to a stop against the jagged wall of Hesco barriers and sandbags.

Everyone quickly took up positions and began to return fire. Price pulled his NVGs into place; the world turned lime green. From the jagged heights of the ridge before them, distant muzzle flashes sparkled like fireflies; rock and steel around them sparked in response. Now that they'd managed to get outside without being shot, they had to press themselves close up against the barriers to avoid the lethal barrage that plunged down at them from above. Something brushed past him – the limp hand of a body being carried back to the bunker, its head misshapen, a dark trail zigzagging beneath it.

Though Kamarov's face was obscured by his own goggles, Price saw him bare his teeth, his words inciting howls of righteous bloodlust from his men before he switched to English.

"Make them hurt!"

Incoming rounds snapped overhead and thudded into the barrier in front of Price, rejoined by the roar of the enemy DshK, its gunner recovered from his temporary blindness. A rifle cracked somewhere to his left, and the DshK fell silent.

"Shitload of bad guys in thermal," yelled Kurt, his thick rifle scope to his eye. "A bunch crouching behind rocks, not moving…other guys on the ridgeline covering them."

_Crack, crack – _a second sniper rifle found more targets, men running to retake the DshK. "Oh no you don't," said Kurt's spotter, Jake.

Like everyone else, Price was forced to shout over the noise. "Kamarov – is this the first time they've stopped playing tag in favor of a full-on assault?"

Kamarov's voice was as cold and impersonal as the black lens that stared back at him. "It will be their last."

Ten meters from the bunker doors on either side and connected by the barrier wall stood two elevated plywood sangars, nestled back into natural crevices of the mountain face. Surrounded by sandbags, with a roof of canvas and camo netting, each housed a 12.7mm machine gun – the old DshK on the left, a Kord on the right. Both spouted brilliant blooms of deadly flame, raining spent brass and link in a growing pile.

Light streaked across the field to the far left corner, where a hulking shadow sat draped in camo netting. It erupted into a fireball; everyone ducked just in time for jagged pieces of rotor blade to scythe above their heads. The Little Bird was now engulfed in flames. "Shit," Price muttered. _There goes our ride._

"Contact right!" Sergei shouted, firing. "Enemies in the open!"

Price popped up over the barrier. In some places, the hillside to their right was almost a sheer drop, yet it was crawling with movement. Dark figures - a lot more than they'd thought - dashed between cover, advancing. He acquired one of them in his sights, leading him slightly, and squeezed the trigger. Gravel sprayed his face from a near miss; he ducked back down as the man fell.

"Shit - they're down in the draw!" shouted Kurt.

_Already. _Price's eyes narrowed behind his goggles; he flicked his AK's fire selector switch up to full auto. The level ground on the LZ's right side fell off into a rocky depression, which terminated in a ditch within 25 meters of the Kord - good for both cover and advancement. And the men whom Buzz had so dismissively referred to as 'the Flintstones' now had them outnumbered by at least three to one.

"They know what they're doing," said Price, his voice low. His rifle tight in his shoulder, he concentrated on controlling his breathing while he scanned for targets at the edge of the ditch.

"Kurt, Jake – we'll worry about them. I need eyes on that ridgeline," said Hagar.

"Copy that," said Jake. In his next breath he dropped the sniper that had almost shot Price.

_This could go tits-up in a hurry. _ "Air support?"

"ETA twenty minutes," said Kamarov.

The Soviet-era bunker appeared well kept. Price hoped it wasn't just cosmetic. "Are those blast doors original?" Though Price kept his eyes down his sights, he felt the robotic stare trained on him once again.

Kamarov's tone and slow, deliberate words indicated that he didn't appreciate what Price was implying. "They were replaced." Scattered bursts of gunfire punctuated his momentary silence. "I'll be damned before I let this scum chase us underground," he said. "We taught them a few lessons before, and what we have here are a lot of slow learners. By the time the gunships arrive, there will be nothing left for them." He spoke some Russian into the radio, possibly a translation – it resulted in more bloodthirsty shouts from the Loyalists.

Tangos burst from their hiding places and hopped down the slope to join the others. Price marveled at their agility_. Like bloody mountain goats, they are. _A few went limp and tumbled down the rest of the way, followed a split second later by the sound of the Delta snipers' shots. Then he saw what he'd been waiting for: a head popped up. The man flew backward, his rifle firing wildly into the air. _Gotcha_.

Price's jaw dropped; enemy fighters suddenly swarmed out of the draw.

"Light 'em the fuck up!" Hagar bellowed.

Red tracers streaked like lasers across the field. Between the echoed crack of small arms fire and the mechanical rattle of the heavy guns, Price heard the faster bursts of light machine guns, including Delta's SAW gunner, 'Mailman' Mike.

_BRRT…BRRRT…BRRRRT. _The onrushing horde writhed in a gruesome dance, their bodies literally torn apart in the fusillade, yet still more came.

In his entire career Price had never seen anything like it. Terrible understanding rippled through him. This was what had sent the Soviets – and the British – packing. _Straight out of fucking Kipling. We have the watches, but they have the time._

Kamarov's shouting filled the radio in a heated Russian exchange, the other man's tone growing desperate. The heavy machine gun fire was now one continuous, jangling roar.

An RPG _whooshed_ past them, blowing the Loyalist DshK and its gunners out of the sangar. The body of a nearby Delta operator hurtled through the air, landing in a heap. Price and the others were showered with hot shrapnel and gore.

"_Suki_!" Sergei screamed. Bogdan's GP-30 spat out a 40mm grenade and returned the favor.

Kurt scrambled to reach the American lying facedown in the dirt. The man's tattered desert camo fatigues were stained with blood, arms and legs splayed out in the unnatural sprawl of sudden unconsciousness. "Jake? We've got an eagle down!" He reached out to jostle him; Jake's helmeted head wobbled, but that was all. "Jake – come on!" He looked up, his shout faltering when he saw Delta's medic already at his side. "Terry - "

Laying a hand on Kurt's shoulder, Terry dropped his pack. "Careful!" He leaned over Jake, checking his pulse and breathing, and looked back up at Kurt. "We need a backboard!" Their yelling could barely be heard over the nonstop noise of the remaining machine gun.

Enemy dead and wounded littered the field. But for every one that fell, another took his place. They continued to rush the Kord's position, leaping over the torn bodies of their comrades.

The Kord's barrel began to glow a faint red in the dark.

"We're gonna get overrun!" Hagar reared back and threw a frag. "Keep those fuckers away from that gun before they turn it on us! Mustang two-one – how about that air support, over?"

Buzz's terse voice came back over the radio. "Working on it. Out."

For the first time, Price noticed how cold it was outside in the dead of night. _Working on it? What the fuck happened to twenty minutes?_

They were close enough now that Price could hear their cries when the grenade found its mark. Underslung grenade launchers - Delta's GLMs and the Russian GP-30s - sent out an even greater explosive welcome, shredding still more enemy fighters to pieces. He was able to get a good look at them now. These were young dark-haired, bearded men in baggy dark clothing with turbans and pakols to match. Some had camouflage jackets, most had chest rigs.

Past the bright white flame pouring out the front of the sangar, Price could make out the green figure of the Kord's assistant gunner, who sprayed his PKP's fire back and forth at the ditch while shouting into his headset, his mic keyed on. The man's voice was frantic. The PKP gobbled up its ammo belt and stopped. The man dropped it, drew his pistol and kept firing. His body twitched spasmodically in several directions and collapsed.

The Kord clunked to a halt.

There was a heartbeat of silence before the screaming started. It stopped just as abruptly.

"Get on that gun – _davai, davai_!" Kamarov shouted. Russians raced to regain control of the abandoned Kord as emboldened hostiles flooded forward. Price spat out a grenade's pin. "Frag out!" Limbs flew in a dark whirlwind.

A Loyalist, Andrei, leapt into the sangar and grabbed the gun. He popped its top open to clear the malfunction while Price and the others continued to lay down a wall of suppressing fire.

Something struck Price's helmet, driving him to his knees. Blinking, he tried to shake off the dizziness, his vision hampered by the green tunnel of his NVGs as his eyes darted in search of the object, which bounced and rolled in front of him.

Something dark…oval.

"_Granata! _Price!" Sergei hit the ground behind him.

Time slowed down as Price dove forward to grab it. He felt it ticking in his hand. The faster he tried to move, the slower he seemed to go, and though he flung it with all the force he could muster, it took forever to leave the end of his arm. Incredulous, he watched it hurtle lazily over the barriers until someone shoved him from behind. He tasted dirt.

With a blinding _THUD_, a wall of dust blasted out of the Hescos.

Time was speeding back up again. He coughed and sputtered, the stabbing pain in his side reminding him why he shouldn't. A face coalesced in the green blur - Sergei's. Lips formed exaggerated words: Get. Up.

Frowning, Price gave a curt nod, turned his head and spat. His breath left him in a _woof, _thanks to an affectionate cuff on the back from Bogdan, who hauled him up by his vest. "_Davai, starik."_

Sergei's manic expression melted away. Price brought his rifle up with a snarl. The machine gun was manned once again - by the enemy.

The black-clad stranger's face lit up as he swung the Kord in their direction. He could now mow them all down with ridiculous ease. He propped one off-brand hi top on the body lying beneath him – Andrei's. Blood dripped from the edge of the wooden platform.

The end of a thin black line stood between Price's eye and the grinning face. Two AKs barked. Hot steel stung his cheek and bounced off the side of his helmet. The man toppled forward, half his head gone. His body draped over the gun for a few seconds before spilling out of the sangar to the ground. The Kord's barrel drooped, as if in disappointment.

Price allowed himself to breathe again. Acrid smoke curled into his face from the AK's open breech; it had been his last shot.

Sergei looked at him in disbelief. "Did you get him or did I?"

"Changing!" Price tilted a fresh magazine into place and yanked the AK's charging handle. "As long as that arsehole's been slotted, makes no diff - " He paused midsentence, surprised that he had a chance to form one. "You hear that?"

Beside him, Bogdan backed away from the barrier, apparently sharing Price's unease at the lull in the gunfire. His rifle at low ready, he stepped toward the small crowd of Loyalists defending the sangar, moving with a predatory grace that belied his size.

Something flashed in Price's peripheral vision. "RPG!" He was already halfway to the ground when the explosion's heat and pressure rolled over him. Soil and debris rained down, forcing him to retreat back to the shelter of his folded arms a split second after he'd begun to lift his head.

The Kord, along with most of the sangar, was gone. Flames leapt up the splintered wood. Dazed men crawled along the ground; others lay unmoving.

"Fuuuuck! Fuck!" One of the Americans clawed at his face and flung away a piece of smoking metal, shaking his hand, his glove smoldering. Seeing a fallen Delta man, he rushed to his side. "Rerun – y'all right?"

Rerun struggled to sit up, the dark stubble of his face streaked with blood and dirt. "Goddamn it, Mike," he grunted. "We're getting chewed up out here."

Price slid a hand backward through the rubble, levering himself up with a grimace. Bogdan lay next to him, curled up on his side.

"Bodya!" Sergei was there in two pounding steps, easing him over onto his back. Bodgan's eyes were clamped shut, lips pressed together in a tight line, some of his groans escaping between shallow gasps. He was peppered with blast injuries, his ragged clothing spotted with blood. One arm was wrapped protectively around himself, just below the edge of his vest; a dark stain was spreading across the front of his shirt beneath. Sergei pried his arm out of the way. Bogdan's fingers trembled around a shard of lumber protruding from his abdomen.

Price slung his rifle behind him and moved to help, but Kamarov had already taken hold of Bogdan's opposite shoulder. "Get his legs," he said.

When Price crouched in front of him, Bogdan stiffened, his face contorted with rage. He snatched up his AK and swung it one-handed toward Price.

Price shrank away from the muzzle flashes blazing past his shoulder and whirled around to see another man in black fall, his rifle spinning out of his hands. Bracing himself against the Hescos, he brought his own gun up and fired. One threat was gone, and three more were climbing over the ruins of the sangar.

One had an RPG over his shoulder. He was close enough for Price to see his finger jerk the trigger before he pitched forward. Close enough to see the button-like tip of the warhead flying directly at them.

A whispered "No!" was the last thing Price thought he'd ever say. But the rocket malfunctioned, veering off course. With a flash of searing heat, it corkscrewed over their heads to impact harmlessly against the mountainside, sending a shower of rocks across the bunker entrance. His nose wrinkled at the smell of burning hair – his own.

He turned back to see the man's body hanging headfirst over the barrier, propped up by the empty RPG tube like a human sign pointing to chaos. The air was thick with smoke, accompanied by an orchestra of gunfire, yelling in several languages, and screams of pain. Injured men were all around him, some being dragged to safety, while others staggered back under their own power. Those still fit to do so opened fire on a fresh wave of enemies.

"It's like a goddamned clown car! How fuckin' many of them are there?" Mike's SAW felled half a dozen, creating a tangle of bodies.

"We're not going to last much longer out here," said Hagar, dropping several others with bursts from his HK416.

Price's AK added more bodies to the pile. "Let it go, Kamarov." What a load of shit that must have sounded like, coming from him. The black tube of Kamarov's NVGs regarded him again – it seemed to agree, and begged a silent question: _can you?_

Sergei's goggled, helmeted attention swiveled between Price and his commanding officer, then back down to the wounded friend lying in his arms.

Kamarov's mouth twisted in some inner struggle, until he turned back to his men. "Fall back to the bunker!" He twirled a hand in a circular gesture. "Fall back!"

"Thought you'd never ask. Popping smoke." Kurt tossed the hissing canister toward the sangar, leaving a plume of red smoke in its wake. He took a knee to steady himself and brought his rifle to his shoulder, ready to take full advantage of his thermal sight. He fired twice, three times.

Bogdan clutched at the impaled object in his belly, pedaling on unsteady legs as Kamarov and Sergei dragged him backwards. He continued to fire one-handed bursts until his AK clicked empty and he sagged into their arms, his rifle clattering to the ground. Another Loyalist ran to pick up his feet, and all three rushed him inside.

More rockets shot through the smoke but didn't hit anything; they had been fired blindly. Kurt sent a few rounds back at them – not as blindly. No one else could see them fall, but they could hear their screams.

"Let's go, let's go!" Hagar waved at the men who had paused to fire while others continued to retreat.

A buzzer sounded behind Price, followed by a hydraulic hiss. Light flashed on the ground around him; shadows leapt and shrank. It was the rotating ceiling light just inside the entrance - the blast doors were closing.

Kurt swung his rifle up and ran for the doors. Mike's SAW covered them with a burst as the rest of the wounded were taken inside, then he followed.

Price threw another grenade. The explosion looked like lightning in the clouds, briefly exposing shadowy outlines of men in the smoke.

Kamarov was somewhere behind him, screaming his name. "Price! Come on!"

He looked up to see a man crouched atop a Hesco, towering over him. A fold of his black turban was wrapped around his nose and mouth, exposing only the set of fierce dark eyes that stared down at Price over the barrel of an AK-47.

"Price!"

A hole appeared between the two eyes, then a trickle of blood. The dead man's blank face loomed in his as Price was yanked backward and ushered through the narrow opening between the doors. Kurt stepped out of his way, his smoking rifle in his hands.

Kamarov was right behind him, squeezing his bulk sideways to get in. Price flipped up his NVGs, returning to a world of full color. Now that everyone had raced inside, the huge red steel and concrete doors were closing with agonizing slowness. That, the rotating red light overhead and the yellow-and-black hazard stripes framing the doorway gave Price a sense of _déjà vu. _ He remembered Gaz's words to him about a very similar set of blast doors, the cockney accent clear in his head: _You can pull on them, sir, if it makes you feel better._

This was a hell of a time for a stroll down memory lane. _Cheeky bastard. _Price almost smiled – even in death, Gaz was still being inappropriate.

The space between the doors was no longer wide enough to admit a man. Kamarov stood in the doorway, sending 7.62 rounds and Russian obscenities through the shrinking gap, bullet strikes sparking around him. Empty casings rolled and bounced at his feet. The wide-eyed phalanx behind him lowered their weapons, barely able to catch a glimpse of the gathering enemy presence outside, much less do anything about it.

A bullet snapped past Price's head; concrete chips stung his face. Kamarov jerked backward as if being driven by an invisible hammer, his arms flying up. Another unseen blow spun him violently around, his face frozen in silent agony. He crumpled, and as Price leapt forward to catch him, the others were peeling away in a dead run. Kamarov's falling body revealed a man outside with an RPG.

A bright flash, heat and deafness. Tiny red-hot needles. The floor slammed into him.

The red light went out. The bunker's audible alarms had been silenced, and the noise coming from outside – the rattle of AKs being fired into the air, the victorious shouts of their enemies - was cut off when the two doors finally met.

BOOM.

* * *

_**Davai – **_let's go/come on

**DILLIGAF – **Do I Look Like I Give A Fuck

**Hesco – **Name of the manufacturer, Hesco Bastion, and synonymous with its product, the Hesco concertainer. A folding wire mesh cube lined with plastic fabric that is filled with dirt and used to stop things like flood waters – and bullets.

_**Suki**_** – **bitches

_**Starik – **_old man

The inspiration for Delta's shoulder patch is the 'Dealer of Death' helmet sticker from the Australian biker site Bikerbits.

Price's Kipling reference is to the poem _The Young British Soldier. _Most Americans, including myself until recently, have never heard of it. Then again, before CoD4 most of us never heard of the SAS. ;-)


	15. FRAGO

_**LEGAL DISCLAIMER:**__ MacTavish, Price, Nikolai and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty:Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games._

_**This story is an AU. **__**Contains graphic language.**_

_**A/N: **__Back from an unintended hiatus. Thanks for hanging in there with me, and for your awesome support! As ever, your reviews are very much appreciated. Love, leopard print and most of all – warmth - to my wonderful and currently shivering beta __**Sassy Satsuma. **_

_Credit goes to __**Ordnance **__for Kamarov's first name, from his fic __**Modern Warfare: Revolution.**_

* * *

The silence, and the ringing in Price's ears, was deafening.

A few smoking shards of metal lay scattered on the floor around him. Most were embedded in the pockmarked wall and ceiling. The wisps of smoke fed the hazy layers floating in the sickly fluorescent lighting. One fixture had been knocked from its mooring and hung, still lit, by its wires, swinging in a slow twisting arc.

Crunching through debris, Price rolled over to see Kamarov lying beside him, unconscious, his face mottled red and black – blood and carbon. He pushed himself up off the floor as several sets of boots came pounding over. "Kamarov," he whispered.

A drop of blood swelled around the edge of one nostril and broke, painting a red streak, as Price peeled off a glove to check for a pulse. "Kamarov…Anton?"

Men dropped to their knees beside him while others gathered around, and everyone began to talk at once.

Price, joined by one of the Loyalists, began to pat him down for injuries. Kamarov's gray eyes blinked open, widening in surprise at the crowd of faces before focusing on Price. He drew in a deep breath and gasped, wincing.

"Where are you hit?" Price asked.

Kamarov clutched at his side. "Took a couple in the vest," he grunted. One of his men shouted for a medic. "_Nyet,_" said Kamarov, waving them away. "_Ya v poryadke." _He pushed himself up onto his elbows with a groan. "It's nothing." They appeared unconvinced as he slowly, painfully reached into his jacket - Price expected bloodstained fingers to emerge - and brought out his flask for a drink. They backed off, sighing.

Price chuckled to himself, shaking his head, partly to refuse the offer that followed. This was more like the man he remembered.

Kamarov sniffled, wiping the blood off his face. "They're going to have to do better than that."

_Thud. _All eyes fell on the doors.

"They are persistent," said one of the Russians.

"If that hadn't hit the edge of the door, or if that had been a HEAT round…well, you'd be in no shape to hold a conversation, that's for sure," said Rerun.

"We'd no longer have a shape," said Price. His thoughts strayed to what the armor piercing shaped charge and delayed secondary explosion would've done to them_. "_Only standard rounds so far. Even so, we need to clear away from the doors." The Americans agreed, glancing at the Loyalists keeping watch on the entrance; they seemed eager to rejoin the men gathered down the corridor. Price heard moaning, and assertive responses tempered with reassuring tones. The wounded were back there.

Kamarov watched them disappear around the curve, designed to protect against a blast wave if the doors were breached. "I've sent someone to check on MacTavish," he said, fixing Price with a piercing gaze, as if trying to drill the meaning into him. His voice softened. "The sooner, the better, my friend."

It worked. Price was aware of the cold once again, felt the prickle of gooseflesh. He nodded slowly, and when he extended his hand to Kamarov, it wasn't just to help him up.

* * *

The hallway was scattered with wounded, some lying down, others sitting propped up against the walls, cradling hastily-dressed injuries. A few men were making the rounds among them, while most were gathered in two small crowds: one around Jake and one around Bogdan.

Bogdan was stretched out on the gray concrete, his head pillowed on Sergei's folded jacket. He was conscious but barely holding on, his eyes almost closed. Despite the cool air, sweat shone on his pale forehead. Thick dressings, stained with blood, were packed and tied around the impaled object in his belly to stabilize it. Sergei held the rapidly dripping IV bag aloft while a Russian medic bandaged another one of Bogdan's many shrapnel wounds. Kamarov and Price crouched down next to him.

"How's he holding up?" Price asked.

"Better, after some morphine," said Sergei. The concern on his face was immediately replaced by a smirk when he turned back to the big man lying in front of him. "Leaving me with all the work, as always."

Price followed his lead with a disapproving tone. "_Some_? Looks like he's had a bit more than that."

"_Yob t'voyu mat_. Get this fucking thing out of me…" Bogdan whispered.

Kamarov patted him on the arm. "Soon, brother."

The lift banged to a stop behind them. Sergei glanced over his shoulder. "There they are now. We're going to get you downstairs."

The door slid open and two trolleys emerged, while more men poured out of the stairwell to join them, jamming the already crowded corridor. Buzz and Rev were among them, grim-faced as they surveyed the scene.

The newcomers surrounded Bogdan. Though there were plenty available for the job, Price, Sergei and Kamarov helped lift and secure him onto the trolley. A few feet away, a similar group were carefully hoisting up the backboard that Jake was strapped to. Their terse voices and intense expressions – Kurt's especially - had already told Price that the Delta operator was gravely injured. Now he was able to see it for himself. Jake was unresponsive, his waxen, badly swollen face almost matching the color of the plastic cervical collar around his neck.

The Delta medic, Terry, carefully arranged the tubing and laid the IV bag on Jake's chest. "All right, let's go. Kamarov…once the external security situation is stabilized, we can evac them both, along with some of your more seriously wounded. You guys aren't equipped to handle all the casualties," he said, as the trolley began to move.

"Agreed," Kamarov nodded.

With a lift of his singed eyebrows, Price held out a hand in farewell. "See that, mate? Now you get to spend more quality time with your favorite people."

Bogdan clasped it. The strips of white tape and clear tubing looked stark and clinical against his dirty forearm. His unfocused, wandering gaze finally landed on Price. "Don't remind me…Price…" He swallowed, closing his eyes. "…you prick."

Price smiled. "Get better."

Bogdan summoned the energy to shoot him a sharp look. "Watch your back, Price." His eyelids drooped again. "And kill all those fuckers for me," he mumbled.

"Planning on it, although it would be rude of me not to save you a couple."

Bogdan cracked a sleepy grin as he was wheeled into the lift.

"That might be a while," said Buzz.

"What the fuck does that mean?" Hagar snarled. "What about our air?"

"We got cut off right in the middle of calling it. Anything outside with a dish or antenna, they've found it." The group's mood darkened even further, with shifting and rumbling. Sergei, who stood just inside the lift with Bogdan, backed out just as the doors closed. "Just as we feared," Buzz gave him a nod of acknowledgement. "They were leading us on. Among the not-ready-for-primetime players is some real leadership, probably guys who've fought the Russians before. They've taken out our drone, our comms and they've got every entrance covered, though most are at the back door here – the one we thought we could leave open."

Kamarov began to instruct his men in Russian. A group of them headed for the blast doors. "Now…everyone else who can still fight – top of the stairwell."

"So apart from the obvious, what do you have in mind?" Buzz asked.

"We have a few hidden entrances. Should buy you the time you need to reestablish contact," said Kamarov.

"They haven't found all the cameras yet," said Rev. "Let's hope they stay long enough for the fireworks."

"I have a feeling they're not going anywhere," said Price. "What's the ventilation system like in here?"

A momentary hush fell over the group. "Multiple exhaust fans and intake points - " Kamarov began, but the question had already spurred everyone into action, including him. "Basic filtration only."

"Rerun, Mike, Atticus – with me. We're going to grab some ammo, we'll meet the rest of you up there," said Hagar.

Men began funneling up the stairs. One of the Deltas paused – a man with a neck as thick as his head and bushy, almost contiguous eyebrows. His callsign was Chuckles, but his expression couldn't be more humorless.

"Price…you coming?"

* * *

With cautious, painful effort while sitting on the bedside, Soap had just managed to ease his trousers over his hips when the Afghan-looking man strolled into the room, Misha right behind him. He looked down at Soap and pulled a face. "Christ. He's never going to make it, not like this."

Angry heat flooded MacTavish's face and neck. Along with the truth in that statement and what it meant for both him and Price, he hated _that_, knowing others could read him like a book, as his mother had frequently reminded him when he was growing up.

Armaan commented over his shoulder. "Misha, better give big lad one for the road, eh?"

Misha's look of appraisal was one that Soap had grown to dislike. The medic pursed his lips and sighed before returning his attention to the canvas bag he'd dropped on the bedside table. He rummaged through it, mumbling under his breath and turned back to Soap, a plastic bottle of pills rattling in his hand. "Be sure to finish _all_ of these -" he gave the bottle a shake "- and remember what I told you about the sutures. Remind Price about his." He shook his head and tossed it back into the bag. "Maybe he'll listen to you."

Eyeing the bag, MacTavish didn't reply.

Misha _humphed _at him on his way out. "Probably not."

"Come on, step it up sweetheart, meter's running," said Armaan.

MacTavish slowly stood to tower over him, their faces separated by inches. Though his posture conveyed the message he wanted, his slow rise from the bed hadn't been for the intimidation factor. His wounds had been aggravated by all the unfamiliar activity, and the flaring pain was doing nothing for his mood. Though he was no stranger to the small hours, his awakening had been a rude one, to say the least.

He hoped his trembling wasn't visible; jangling nerves and the fuzzy remnants of last night's painkillers competed in a mildly nauseating battle for his awareness. He didn't need any reminders from this muppet about hurrying, he'd already heard enough from the Russians. The alarms and intercom announcements had signaled his hasty eviction from the infirmary, which now hummed with activity. Medics in plastic aprons rushed about with armloads of supplies, preparing to take fresh casualties. They'd sat him up, checked his dressings, pulled his IV site, tossed a set of clothes in his direction and introduced him to his escort, whom he currently felt like flattening.

And shite…after all the trouble of standing up, he hadn't yet gotten his boots on.

"And just who the bloody hell are you again?" he growled.

Armaan held up his hands, taking a step back. "All right, take it easy." His strange green eyes bore into MacTavish's with sudden sincerity. "Proof that you two still have friends in low places."

Soap was unmoved. "Is that right?"

Armaan lowered his voice to a hiss. "Listen, mate - you can stay here if you like, but with all the shit lists you're on right now, I wouldn't recommend it. Before long, Yanks'll have both a cas-evac _and_ a QRF here, and if you thought things were getting cozy before…"

Both men paused at the sudden stream of Russian cursing from Nikolai, and Sasha's attempts to calm him down and keep him from flying out of bed in a rage.

This was enough to break Soap's cold stare. "Oi - what's the matter with him?"

Nikolai's face was bright red. "Those _khui _just blew up my chopper!"

"For fuck's sake." Soap groaned. "Although knowing you there's three more in the garage."

"Not in _this_ fucking garage!"

_Yet another sodding thing we don't need right now. _He glanced at the long sleeved, blue-and-white striped _telnyashka_ still sitting on the bed – something else he should have put on first. _Fuck me.__Yet more evidence of how quickly I need to sort myself out._ With a curl of his lip and a long, exasperated exhale through his nose, MacTavish hiked up the unbuttoned khaki combat trousers.

"Hold on, I wouldn't do that just yet," said Armaan, as Misha reappeared with something in his hand. Soap heard the tap of a glass vial being placed on the table, then the medic dug into the pocket of his white lab coat for a couple more items – Soap couldn't see what. "Desperate times…desperate measures," said Armaan, slinging the canvas bag over his shoulder.

Soap's stitched eyebrow shot up and he winced, his scowl deepening. He didn't like the look that had just passed between the two, or the smirk creeping across Nikolai's face. "What are you on about?" he demanded.

"You look like you could do with a pick-me-up, so I've got some good news," said Armaan. He paused in the doorway, not quite smiling. "In a moment, I'll no longer be the biggest pain in your arse."

* * *

With a click, a gloomy cone of light spilled into the small room, but not before Hagar almost tripped over one of the many boxes of ammunition stored there for the Americans' use - the Russians didn't shoot anything that ate 5.56. This minor inconvenience would work in his favor for once.

He stole a glance at Mike and Rerun as the duo stooped over a wooden crate. The dressing taped over Mike's cheek looked like it was already about to fall off, but it would have to do for now. In most ways, the two couldn't be more different. Mike was big, blond, loud and red-faced, a Nebraskan with Scandinavian roots like Hagar's. He'd been a Boy Scout and a high school football star - when he wasn't helping little old ladies cross the street, he'd been stuffing smaller guys into lockers. He'd joined the military right out of school, in keeping with the family tradition and for a ticket out of the cornfield. Rerun, on the other hand, was compact, dark-haired and olive-skinned. An escapee from some inner-city shithole, his ability to fly under the radar had served him well in life. He'd earned his nickname from a particularly drunken episode involving dancing, one they'd never let him live down, even though the kid was too young to get the reference.

While this was anything but a bullshit errand, Hagar was sure they both knew damn well why he and his second-in-command, Atticus, had pulled them aside. At least they had the decency to start off with some small talk.

Rerun was typically soft-spoken. "Goddamn…did you see that fuckin' RPG hit the mountainside? Not to mention the door."

"That's what they get for buying 'em from the Chinese," said Mike, flicking open his knife.

"That's not what I meant. Price almost bit it back there – a couple of times."

"Now that _would_ be a damn shame, wouldn't it?" The first band snapped off, Mike began sawing away at the second. "Shit happens, you know…" It broke and he shrugged. "…in the fog of war and all."

Turning his attention from his own crate, Hagar straightened to face them, his emphasis on the first word edged with authority. "_Just_ so we're clear. "I know y'all have some mixed feelings about this one."

"We all do," said Atticus, with a slight Southern drawl. It was his real name, bestowed upon him by bookish parents back in the days - as Hagar put it - 'before all the hipster pukes started doing it'. He was only in his early thirties, but the shoulder-length dark brown hair twisted into a knot at the base of his neck was going prematurely gray. A rumpled brow overshadowed the pale blue-green eyes set deep in his bearded face. "We didn't exactly sign up for this little venture to start going after Brits. Especially ones that some of us trained with."

Mike folded the knife, stuffing it back into its sheath more forcefully than necessary. "What about Vinson – have you forgotten about him already?"

The open accusation didn't bother Hagar nearly as much as the silent one in Rerun's dark eyes. "We don't know that they're the ones responsible."

"They were there, weren't they? Took on Hotel Bravo by themselves – I'd call that two very motivated individuals."

Rerun shook his head slowly, looking at the floor. "Shepherd was a good guy. A little misunderstood, maybe."

"And trust me - they're going to answer for it," said Hagar. "At the moment, we have a few _other_ motivated individuals to deal with."

"Primary mission still comes first," said Atticus, with a nod to indicate their surroundings. "Remember whose house we're in."

"So after we're done mopping up these motherfuckers," Mike jerked a thumb at the ceiling. "Then we just –" He looked at his upraised hand, smirked and gave a sarcastic shrug. " - sit here with our thumbs up our asses and continue to make nice?"

"That's exactly what we're going to do - for now. Once they're feeling their oats, they'll make a run for it. That's when we get 'em," said Hagar.

"Their pilot's grounded, and MacTavish is still out of commission. We've got some time," said Atticus.

Mike sighed. "I hope you're right. Even once he's ambulatory, he won't be back to 100 percent for a while. But the old man? He might be looking a little worse for wear right now, but from what I hear, that little dude is trouble on a stick."

Rerun shared his friend's concern. "Word is, he was a guest of the Inner Circle for months. Seems they showed him some real Spetsnaz-style hospitality. Do you honestly think he'll let himself be taken alive again?"

"But hey - it's us, right? What's a little bagging and tagging among friends?"

Even Atticus was starting to lose his patience. "Jesus, Mike. You're starting to sound like that asshole from _Aliens._"

In better circumstances, Hagar might have laughed. "The Agency wants 'em alive."

"That's all well and good. However – if they put up a fight, it's officially still a two-way order, is it not?" Mike gave him a sideways look. "…_If_ it comes down to that."

Hagar was fresh out of time for this shit – this recent insistence on butting heads with him was getting old. _Vinson was cashiered out, PNG'ed. Keep it up and you'll join him. _He locked eyes with Mike. "So let's just hope it doesn't."

"Since I personally know three little kids that will now grow up without a father," The heavy green steel US-issue ammo boxes marked _4 BALL 1 TRACER M27 LINK _clunked as Mike stood up with them. "You'll have to excuse me if I don't hope too hard."

* * *

**HEAT – **High Explosive Anti-Tank; a 'bunker buster'.

_**Khui**__ - _dicks

_**Nyet, ya v poryadke**__ – _No, I'm all right.

**PNG – **_Persona non grata, _an unwelcome person; to be PNG'ed is to be ostracized.

**QRF **– Quick Reaction Force

_**Yob t'voyu mat**__ – _'Fuck your mother' or more literally 'go back into your mother'.

_**Aliens**__ is the property of Twentieth-Century Fox._

_* 'that little dude is trouble on a stick' is from __**Wolverine**__**#92**__ (1995) by Larry Hama. That line has been stuck in my head for over 17 years! As a couple of you already know, my Price characterization was somewhat inspired by Logan, and since the late John McAleese described himself as a 'short-arse', that's how I think of Price. I couldn't resist._


	16. Magistral

_**LEGAL DISCLAIMER:**__ MacTavish, Price, Nikolai and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty:Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games._

_**This story is an AU. Contains mature language and graphic violence. Any similarity to recent world events is completely coincidental.**_

_**A/N: **__Wow – the last chapter got more reviews than I'd seen in a long time. Thanks to everyone who left one, I __**really**__ appreciate it. I'm starting to feel rather like poor Price at this point, so they help me to soldier on. This is the biggest chapter to date, almost a double helping. Betaed by the awesome Queen of Upper Body Strength, __**Sassy Satsuma. **__Huge thanks to __**Pavel **__for the Russian language help. As always, thanks for reading!_

_***Update**__** 10/12/13* – This chapter has since been split in two, so the above credits extend to the next one.**_

* * *

The man carrying the tire never knew what hit him. The man with the Molotov cocktail, he knew. But he was too distracted by the flames leaping up the long shirttail of his _shalwar_.

When they'd spotted Tire Man from their rocky perch, angry sighs had drifted through the well-armed group lying flattened in the contours of otherwise exposed ground.

A tire - Price's previous concerns realized. In this case, the sum of their fears.

They'd heard him before seeing him. Their attackers had chosen their timing carefully. The night was nearly pitch black, with only a sullen orange sliver of moon. That choice had begun to work out even more in their enemies' favor when puffy clouds scudded across the sky, blotting out the stars. Without much light to gather, their night vision goggles gave them little advantage over the man, who wore none.

After letting him pass, Price, Sergei and a few others had climbed down as slowly and quietly as possible, careful not to profile themselves against the night sky. Price's foot had slipped – he'd silently mouthed a curse, freezing on the spot. The trickle of gravel had sounded like an avalanche in his electronic headset, designed to muffle loud noises while amplifying ambient sounds.

Tire Man hadn't heard a thing, and had continued on his way as the darkness shifted behind him.

Readily available just about anywhere, nothing burns like a tire. Fast and hot, with dense smoke. For that very reason, used all over the World for things like signal fires, roadblocks … and much worse.

The soft rolling crunch of their footfalls had sounded thunderous in an otherwise eerie silence. In night vision, the sheer cliffs seemed to close in around them, looming over an alien landscape rendered in lime green static and deep shadow. Price had felt a fluttering breeze and recoiled as a squeaking bat flitted past him, another creature on the hunt.

They crept along behind Tire Man until he reached his destination: a cluster of boulders tucked into the hillside, above the level of their heads, where a few of his fellows awaited him. Tires had been piled over the rocks – Sergei's sudden grip on his shoulder and pointing had told Price that this was one of the bunker's concealed air intake vents. He'd wondered if its inhabitants already smelled rubber, as he could. That, and petrol; with some effort, Tire Man had hurled his atop the pile while one of his mates had been busy stuffing a rag into a bottle.

Crude, and terribly effective. The fire would quickly become unapproachable — unstoppable. Stealing oxygen while pouring thick black smoke into the bunker's air system. A blinding, highly toxic curtain would descend over the men below them, including MacTavish, Nikolai, and the critically wounded that now lay in the infirmary. Those who were able would be forced to flee the bunker or be rapidly overcome, and once they made it out, an ambush awaited them.

Price had to force himself to focus on Hagar's flurry of handsignals, and not the bright spark that leapt with each abortive flick of the cigarette lighter. His breath had caught as he'd watched the flames leap onto the rag, his finger already pulling slack out of his rifle's trigger.

With a sudden burst of suppressed cracks, the black-clad militiamen's limp bodies had slumped to the ground. Good kills – except for the wounded Molotov man, who had dropped his newly-lit bottle, turning himself into a human torch. Price's next bullet dropped him as well, but not in time to prevent the man's shrill screams.

Everyone tensed, guns trained down the slope in all directions, waiting for shouts and gunfire to erupt.

"_Shit_," Hagar hissed. "Why don't we just take out a friggin' ad? Put that out." Some pulled security while others rushed to the scattered corpses, rifles ready for anyone not quite dead. Sergei ran up to the man's burning body, and with a shrug, began to extinguish the flames by stomping on him. There was no reaction.

"Stop, drop and roll, motherfucker," one of the Americans murmured.

Like everyone else's, Rerun's voice was a whisper. "So much for keeping this quiet."

Hagar keyed his radio. "Markhor Five, this is Markhor Six - give me a sitrep, over."

"Things are about to get hot over here, in more ways than one," Atticus replied, from where his team lay concealed near the other main air vent.

"You too, huh?"

"Caught a posse of bad guys trying to smoke us out. Smoked them instead. Area around the entrance is crawling with hostiles, and pretty soon they're going to start wondering why there's no bonfire. Any luck with the TOC?"

"Affirmative. They're on their way. Until then, we stick to the plan."

"Solid copy."

"Six out."

Kamarov's voice came over the radio next, reinforcing the information in Russian.

"Now we just make like the Bee Gees and stay alive for the next half hour," Mike muttered.

* * *

After stashing the bodies, Hagar's team spread back out to their original positions, tucked into the mountainside. Catching sight of Price, Mike stiffened. He exchanged a long look with Rerun, who clapped him on the arm as he left. Cradling his SAW, Mike watched Price and Sergei clamber back up the rocky slope.

He jumped at the hand on his shoulder. Chuckles's gravelly voice rumbled in his ear. "I know what you're thinking, man … and you need to _stop_ thinking it."

Mike didn't turn around. "Like I'm the only one?" He kept his goggles trained on the smaller of the fuzzy green figures, until they were swallowed by the night. "What's left of Vinson could fit in a shoebox."

"Then you – _plural_ – need to stop thinking it." Chuckles's reply was curt and matter-of-fact as they returned to watching their sectors. "Charlie Mike."

* * *

No matter how many times he had performed this task, Kamarov still marveled at how death seemed to add extra weight to a human body. On the count of three, he and Atticus watched it roll into the ravine.

"This must bring back some memories," said Atticus, his voice barely audible as they began the climb back up to the ridge overlooking the trail.

"Too many, and few of them pleasant," said Kamarov. Retreat wasn't an option, yet neither was going on the offensive. They had to stop any further attempts at sabotage or breaching, yet they needed to avoid contact as much as possible. They could safely assume they were still outnumbered, and now without overhead thermal imaging, they had no idea how badly.

He grimaced. The sparse vegetation and open spaces were deceiving. With steep drop-offs and myriad trails through the mountain's spurs and draws, there was still plenty of dead ground that their enemies knew how to use. No shortage of places to hide.

"It won't be long." Atticus nodded his head toward their men lying in their concealed positions. "We own the high ground, at least."

Behind him, the former Soviet Army sergeant stopped for a moment to gaze at him through his goggles, and simply grunted, falling silent. This all reminded him far too much of another time, long ago, when he and the rest of his Company attempted to hold a different hill, in a lengthy, now infamous battle. His mouth twisted into a fleeting, bitter smile.

_So did __**we**__…_

Handsignals and hisses of warning sent them diving for cover. In a motionless crouch, thorns digging into his face, Kamarov did his best not to breathe. What he saw made him feel like a wide-eyed eighteen-year-old conscript all over again.

Ten silent strangers, clad in loose black clothing and headdresses, crept past them with remarkable stealth. Their chest rigs bulged with spare magazines and grenades. Some had RPGs. An AK traveled a couple of feet past Kamarov's nose, with a slight squeak and rattle, and stopped. Its bearer's hand curled around the weapon to silence it.

He wondered if this _dukh_ could hear his heart pounding — he was close enough to reach out and touch him. Unable to hold it any longer, Kamarov struggled to make his next breath long, low and shallow.

A whisper ahead, and they moved on, flowing like ghosts up the trail. Finally, one of his men signaled the all-clear, and Kamarov's gloved hand emerged from the thorn bushes, waving them forward. As if the rocks themselves came to life, they slowly rose to follow, a confrontation now unavoidable.

* * *

Price's wariness crackled around him like a forcefield, every sense tuned to its maximum. His eyes strained to make out shapes and movement in dim green, ears tuned for the smallest sound, feeling out the uneven ground with tentative steps. The NVGs had stolen his depth perception; it would be easy to take a bad step that could turn into a fall.

Feeling the Yanks' eyes on him, he kept his own straight ahead. They _knew_, and no mistake. The question was how much – the kill/capture order and the Interpol Red Notice were a given.

He'd spent time with Delta on past missions. Solid blokes – he'd even kept in a touch with a couple of them, at least for a while. The 'quiet professionals' had lived up to their name. So how would they handle this? Price had a pretty good idea. Good thing he and Soap weren't planning on sticking around that long.

Their thinly veiled hostility was no surprise. To them, he was a traitor in more ways than one. Being an SAS commando had meant being part of an international brotherhood, one that he'd longed to return to when he'd been offered a place in Taskforce 141. One that took care of its own, in the event of injury, death … and betrayal, whether real or perceived — he knew this all too well. While in the Regiment, he'd participated in such judgment. By the time he'd made Captain, he'd listened to MacMillian's stern counsel and distanced himself from it, though he'd turned a blind eye when it came to his subordinates. Some matters were still best sorted in a pub's car park - _if_ they'd been feeling charitable, and the bastard in question was lucky.

More unsettling to him was, while some of the Deltas were just coolly indifferent, others seemed to be taking it personally. Why? Had Shepherd truly inspired such loyalty? Long viewed as a sympathetic figure after the loss of his men in the Middle East, he'd been a charismatic leader, popular in his own way. But behind the General's back, Price had still heard all the same jokes about knife hands and PowerPoint. This had to be about something else.

He looked over at Sergei, who lay prone next to him. The lad had clearly been shaken by his mate's injury. For both their sakes, Price needed to make sure he was still switched on. He risked a quick, whispered conversation: "Still no punters. I don't like this."

"If they didn't hear him screaming from the mountaintop, you'd think they'd at least be curious about the lack of firelight by now," said Sergei, not taking his eyes off his gunsights.

"Or they've got something else in mind," Price said, his cheek welded firmly against his AK's synthetic stock, watching his own sector. "Behind the waves of cannon fodder are some hard men."

Sergei nodded. "Playing the game they know best."

None of the dead had night vision, but had somehow made their way up the rough terrain in very low illume. Price noted the moon's position. The night had grown long. Dawn wasn't far away, and daylight was _not _their friend.

They needed that air support, sharpish.

A bright thin beam of light lanced across his vision — the infrared laser from someone's rifle. _For FUCK's sake! _His thrill of anger was accompanied by a whispered burst of irritated Russian in his headset. The beam wagged back and forth, then disappeared.

"Somebody got told," whispered one of the Americans.

Price turned to Sergei. "Not all spooks and soldiers, were they, when they joined up with you lot?"

A sigh. "No… "

"Too late, it's done."

A single distant rifle shot rang out, echoes calling out the presence of every surrounding hillside.

_And there you have it. One good cock-up deserves another — you'd think we were at war._

"Do _not_ engage. That wasn't accurate." Hagar's tone over the radio was flat, his words measured - the voice of a man severely pissed off and trying to pretend that he was addressing his own men as well. Price could sympathize with him there. "We need to make sure that doesn't happen again — no lasers, no chem lights, no Fireflies. _Someone's_ got NVGs over there, for all the good it's doing them."

Dead silence returned, accompanied by deepening night. Clouds were drifting across the moon, as unwelcome as Price's continued reverie. Delta's mixed reaction ate at him; his thoughts moved on from Shepherd to Hotel Bravo. Now, Shadow Company … those weren't the cowboys and the Walter Mittys that he'd seen on the Circuit. Quite the opposite. It wasn't too hard to work out where Shepherd might have drawn that level of talent.

The sudden gust of wind was cold. He tensed at an unexplained cracking sound in the cliff face behind them, followed by a few falling pebbles. Nothing was there.

Not yet.

The moon disappeared completely, the darkness closing in around them.

* * *

Kurt's voice came over Mike's earpiece. "Markhor, I've got movement. Ridgeline, two o'clock, two hundred meters—"

_Whump_.

Mike braced himself. It wasn't the incoming mortar he expected - with a Fourth-of-July pop, they were bathed in the flickering light of an illumination round. The bright orb hovered overhead in a lazy drift to Earth, leaving a serpentine trail of smoke in its wake.

"Markhor Six, this is Ursus Six," said Kamarov.

"Send it," Hagar barked.

"Be advised, just eliminated ten hostiles approaching your right flank. How copy?"

"Copy that. We just -"

The air around them exploded into a crackling green neon web. Mike and Chuckles huddled tight to the ground, wincing at sharp rock fragments, sparks flying all around them, the incoming tracer rounds like falling embers. The roar of gunfire slowed to sporadic snaps, enough to get a word in edgewise.

"Think they know we're here?" That earned a frowning glance from Chuckles.

The flare went out. A few more tracers _zip-zip-zipped_ in over their heads, the salvo ending with a shuddering roar. Silent darkness fell again, a shroud of deepest black.

Gun barrels bobbed up and down with rapid breaths, scanning left to right and back again.

Somewhere in the distance, a man's scream tore into the void and gurgled to an abrupt stop.

"What the hell was that?" said Chuckles between clenched teeth.

Random shouts broke the silence. "CONTACT!"

"CONTACT FRONT!"

Again the night was electrified with the snap and whine of bullets, alight with muzzle flashes, thickening with pungent smoke.

Mike's SAW spouted flame. Just below his position, where moments before there had been nothing, he could make out dark figures jerking and twisting to the ground, as more advanced up the slope.

Between the bursts of machine gun fire, he heard yelling, both on and off the radio.

"All units, this is Markhor Six, we're in contact! I say again, we are in contact!"

"They got Chapel - they cut his throat!"

Despite the wall of lead, they were coming right at him, closing in. Just like before. Mike went cyclic, spent casings and link rolling around his elbow, until his gun made the worst sound it could: nothing.

"FUCK!" He struggled with the cocking handle and flipped open the feed tray.

"Hurry up!" Chuckles kept up a steady rate of semiautomatic fire.

"Got it!" Barely noticing the burn from the hot casings bouncing off his face, Mike pounded the tray shut with his fist. Hostiles were less than twenty-five yards away now. One brought an RPG tube up over his shoulder.

They'd barely registered the _whoosh _of the incoming airburst round before it blotted out everything.

The noise and pain lasted only a nanosecond.

* * *

The mortar tube thumped again. In the sizzling light, shadows swirled and coalesced into chaos – the enemy was right here, all around them.

To Price's left, a figure in black - one arm whipped backward from a fountain of blood as a struggling Russian slumped beneath him. Price sent three rapid shots into the NDA man, who pitched forward onto his kill. Shadows leapt across the ground in front of him — Price whirled to see Sergei throw his own attacker over his shoulder and fire a point-blank burst into another. As the first man got up for a counterattack, Price leapt after him. Wishing for a bayonet, he lashed out with his rifle. When the man turned, Price's kick flung him backward. In a wild grab, the hostile caught Sergei's trouser leg, yanking his feet out from under him. Both cartwheeled over the edge of the hillside, while someone grabbed Price from behind, clamping a hand around his chin.

His hands flew up automatically as cold steel bit into the flesh of his neck.

* * *

Mike blinked, wiping grit from his eyes, and spat out a mouthful of dirt. "Chuckles?" he croaked. Groaning, he rolled over to see the blurry double image of his semiconscious teammate crawling next to him, bleeding dark streaks through a thick coating of pale dust. "Chuck?"

Another illume round burst to life overhead as a bearded, black-clad miltiaman crested the berm above. Through pure reflex, Mike tore his pistol from his chest holster and squeezed out four rounds, launching the man out of his sandals and into a faceplant between them. Strange voices penetrated the ringing in his ears, this time below him and to his right. Holstering the pistol, he staggered drunkenly up the berm, though the 30-pound SAW seemed to weigh nothing in his hands. He low-crawled the rest of the way to peer down from their small ridge.

He blinked rapidly, as if further clearing his vision would wake him from the nightmare below._ Holy fucking shit_. There were dozens of them, draped in black cloth and bristling with weaponry, their faces barely showing beneath headdresses, pakols and shawls. AKs, RPGs, grenades, knives. A couple of Russians lay huddled in dark pools, while their killers engaged in hand-to-hand combat with others near the military crest of the hillside. One fell over the edge, still grappling with his opponent, as more bad guys moved in for a piece of the action.

All clustered together. Out in the open.

_Don't mind if I do. _Mike lit them up, marching his tracers through the advancing crowd, who toppled over like mown wheat, until the SAW jammed to a halt. Again.

"GOD DAMN IT!" he screamed. He now had the full attention of the survivors, who began to fire back.

Looking around wildly, he spied the fallen tango's AK and picked it up, spraying a burst over his head in their direction, then rolled toward the body to use it for cover. Propping the barrel on the dead man's foot, he squeezed off another burst, watching more men fall, and stopped short.

One of Kamarov's guys still remained, struggling against a hostile's thick arm wrapped around his neck, a blade flashing closer to its mark — the Loyalist had control of the knife hand, but just barely. In a moment he would join the bodies on the rocks, his throat slashed from ear to ear, and Mike couldn't do anything to stop it. He couldn't shoot, couldn't get there fast enough.

When the Russian whipped his head back, smashing his helmet into his attacker's face, Mike realized who it actually was.

His eyes narrowed behind his NVGs. Price.

The sounds of the battle behind him faded into the background as he watched Price thrash and buck against his assailant. The big man was unfazed other than being momentarily thrown off balance, pivoting them halfway around. Now Mike could no longer see their faces, only that Price was slowly being overpowered. He felt nothing but calm.

He glanced over at the jammed SAW, and down at the weapon in his hands.

The enemy's weapon.

_Fuck it. _He lined up the pair in his sights. _This one's for Dave._

As the flare overhead blinked out, the AK chattered in his hands. The force knocked them both over the edge, their bodies spinning away into the darkness.

His skin crawled when he heard the shaky voice behind him. "Mike?"

He felt heat rising in his face, and was glad no one could see it as he dropped to his knees beside his wounded teammate. "Right here man, I got you."

* * *

**Charlie Mike – **Continue mission

_**Dukh [дух] – **_ghost/spirit (derogatory)

**Markhor – **Mountain goat found in the Hindu Kush and surrounding areas. The national animal of Pakistan. AKA the 'snake eater'.

**TOC -** Tactical Operations Center

**Walter Mitty (or "walt") - **military slang for a wannabe


	17. Rubicon

_**LEGAL DISCLAIMER:**__ MacTavish, Price, Nikolai and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty:Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games._

_**This story is an AU. Contains mature language and graphic violence. Any similarity to recent world events is completely coincidental.**_

_***Updated 10/12/13* I promise I'm not trying to pull a fast one here. I split the last chapter into two and reposted, please hit 'next' for the new material in chapter 18. Chapter 19 has already been written and will soon follow. **_

* * *

Both men shook with effort, the blade cutting deeper, when something slammed into Price with stunning force.

His scream of pain was cut short. The ground whirled away from his feet to come back and smash him in his good side, then his bad one, blasting the remaining breath from his lungs. His goggles twisted away from his face, immersing him in total darkness. He crashed through what felt like some small trees until his rifle caught on something with an abrupt jerk on his shoulder. His dangling legs found nothing but air before the sling slipped off his arm, dropping him into a hailstorm of sharp blows and raking scratches. Plunging into a pile of loose rock, he skidded to halt on his back.

For the next few moments, he wasn't sure how long, the pain was all he knew — in his back, in his ribs, in the excruciating coughing fit from the dust. His mind reeled, until he became aware of the sharp stones digging into his squirming body. His first coherent thought was _not again._

He stopped coughing and froze, listening. The ground was still moving from where he'd disturbed it; he could hear flakes of shale hissing down the hill until they pattered away over some unseen dropoff.

Like a fly in a web, Price struggled to pull his mired limbs free. Still buried up to his ankles, it helped keep him upright as he swayed with dizziness, an arm tucked against his injured side. A knee bent to balance himself against the steep slope, he reached up. His goggles were missing.

A cough, a sputter in the darkness, from someone whose eyes were well-adjusted to the dark. Unlike Price, who was effectively blind.

His hand flew to his holster — miraculously, the Serdyukov was still there.

Swishing steps, getting faster. Coming closer.

Price fired at the sounds, the muzzle flashes strobing frozen images of a murderous giant lumbering toward him. Stringy dark hair and a beard framed wild eyes and bared teeth.

The shots went wide. His head slammed back against the rocks in a burst of light, the pistol flying out of his hand. If he didn't still have his helmet on, the blow would have caved in his skull. As they pawed at each other, Price discovered his enemy's eye, tried to hook a finger in, missed. His knee shot out, producing a scream that quickly withdrew. Not the response he was expecting — the bastard sounded almost as surprised as he was. Price had no time to reflect on this new advantage; when he rolled away he quickly began to gain momentum. He'd just clawed his way to a stop when staggering footsteps hissed after him through the shale. He scooped up a handful and flung it at the sound. As he patted himself down, finding sudden reassurance, the roar was like an oncoming train.

_Shit. That just pissed him off -_

Crushing weight swatted him to the ground. As they grappled in a slow downhill slide, a calloused hand pressed down on his nose and mouth. Price bit down, hard. With an angry snarl came a powerful blow — more sparks, the taste of iron. They rolled over, loose rock swirling around them. Pieces skittered past, racing them downhill. When the hand clamped around his throat, Price found what _he_ wanted. He mentally followed the invisible arm up to the man's chest and thrust the knife between his ribs.

That did it. The man immediately backpedaled as Price's blade sang out again and again. Grunts of pain became watery gasps, his enemy's lung deflating with every breath. Price sprang after him, the knife a whistling arc that ended in a weak howl and a spatter of warmth. As Price coiled for another strike, there was a heavy thud in front of him. Satisfaction turned to alarm when he heard the man sliding. He stepped back, and the shifting ground beneath him disappeared completely, the knife clanging away somewhere behind him.

Price flailed in a fruitless attempt to swim upstream against the rockfall raining down on him. He twisted onto his back, picking up speed, his skidding heels doing little to slow his descent. Larger stones bludgeoned him on all sides as felt the ground closing in around him, like a funnel, then cool air on his face with a smell of sulfurous damp. A cave!

The air was getting colder, the smell stronger. His feet hit firm rock. Finding a root to grab, he strained his thigh muscles in a desperate squat, almost toppling over face first, and stopped. His foot slipped, sliding over the rock to find another. Every muscle tensed, he wedged himself in place.

His ragged moans reverberated around him in what sounded like a well. Maybe if he could catch his breath, it wouldn't hurt so much. "_Ugh … _okay… okay_,_" he panted.

With a telltale wheeze below him, a fierce grip clamped around his ankle. The wheeze became words, the language unknown. The man was speaking to him.

The tight space amplified the sound. Just a whisper, of rhythmic quality, without malice. The grip weakened, the man fighting for breath. The words came faster, sounding more desperate. Making his peace? Asking for or offering forgiveness?

Price would never know. He didn't care. He was slowly being dragged down.

_Time's up. _He planted a firm boot where he imagined the face was.

There was a terrible slithering of panicked limbs failing to find a handhold, then nothing until a few rocks followed with a tumbling crack, going distant even as the echoes grew greater. It was deep, whatever it was. He never heard the body hit. If he went much further, no one would hear his.

Gunfire crackled somewhere overhead. Price took some painful breaths, as deep as he could manage, and swallowed. Once the shaking stopped, he managed, by inches, to get himself turned around.

Only one way out.

Now the real challenge began. Blind fingers traveled over the rock, finding one big enough to grab. Then came the search for footing. The Earth's cold breath chilled the back of his neck, a reminder of what awaited him if he slipped.

A move up … no more handholds. All right. Down then, to the side … maybe that was better. Maybe worse. Just had to keep going in the direction of warmer air, hoping for some sort of progress in the dark. Patting a hand, reaching just a little further, but not too far. There. Now the foot, the other hand. Pull. Push. The other foot. Up.

The sporadic noise of the firefight above told him he hadn't far to go. He made that his focal point, refusing to acknowledge the pain or the tremor creeping into his limbs. Slow and steady, he reminded himself. His mouth twitched. _A bloody snail could outrace me at this point_ —

Gravel bounced off his helmet.

"Saleem?"

Price didn't have to see his own hands to know his knuckles were whitening.

The whispered voice overhead tried again, a bit louder this time. "Saleem?" A surprised yelp rose to a scream, cut short by a crash against the rocks just above him. With a breeze and a change in sound, a body plummeted past him, another cry fading, stones clattering down after it with a deepening echo: _tok-tok, tok…_ _Tok._

_Tok…_

Between that and what he heard next, he nearly fell down the shaft anyway. "_Letiteh goloubi, letiteh_," a familiar voice crowed. Someone else snorted back a laugh.

"Kamarov?" he breathed.

"Price! What are you doing down there?"

Price rolled his eyes. "Potholing, what does it look like?"

Several sets of gloved hands gripped him and pulled, dragging him out of there as his feet scrabbled for anything solid. "That's one hell of a sense of timing you've got," Price said through gritted teeth as his tender midsection made contact with the edge of the hole.

Kamarov grunted with effort. "So I've been told."

* * *

Finally, Price stood on wobbly legs, unseen hands tearing tape and sorting out his vest while Kamarov fiddled with his helmet.

"Looks like your radio survived," he said. Someone else thrust a rifle into Price's hands. "You weren't too hard to find."

Squinting upward, Price could barely make out some broken branches against the night sky. He was pretty sure some of his kit was still up there. "You don't say."

"Here," Kamarov said, reconnecting Price's lost NVGs back onto his helmet and swinging him back into half a green world. One of the eyepieces was cracked — the left one, fortunately. He found himself surrounded by a handful of Loyalists. One was supporting Sergei, who hadn't fared as well during his own fall downhill. His face was swollen and bloody from multiple cuts and scratches. He was favoring his right leg, the knee of his trousers shredded and stained. His left arm dangled uselessly next to him, though he still held his rifle.

"All right, mate?"

"My pride, mostly," groaned Sergei. "You?"

"Nothing a month of sleep and a bottle of Scotch won't cure."

"What's this?" Kamarov's goggles panned downward.

"_Ah," _Price flinched. He looked over his shoulder to see one of the men poking a finger through a hole in the back of his jacket, probing his vest. Though it had plenty of competition at the moment, that explained the steady burning ache in his back. He'd been shot.

"It didn't go through," said Kamarov, whose own face was scored with bleeding scratches.

Price nodded, wincing. "Something hit me hard, just didn't know what. The bloke I fought, he was hurt. The round must have punched through him and struck the plate. The blood on my shirt is his."

"That's not." Kamarov pulled aside the torn remains of Price's shemagh, tilting his head up. It stung — the fabric had stuck to the wound. "He got you, but it's not deep." He shook his head. "Lucky… " At a glance from Price, he stopped himself. "I won't say anything more, I know better."

"Good man."

"You hear that?"

"Sounds like you've pushed them back," said Price, noting the lull in the battle, and how it had migrated south of their position.

"No, not that." The vibration started in Price's inner ear, then his chest. Helicopters. Kamarov's grin was bright amid the dark smears of camouflage cream. "What sweet music they make_." _

"Roger that."

Hands reached for helmets. The IR strobes sent up brilliant pulses of light in Price's NVGs.

After some brief instructions from Kamarov, his men began to move out. Limping between them, Sergei turned back to Price for a moment, inclining his head in silent acknowledgment. Price gave a short nod in return, and that was that. By the look of him, the lad would soon be spending more time with his magazine collection. He and Kamarov stood in silence, watching them leave.

"It's under control. Now … go, my friend." Seeming to sense Price's reluctance, Kamarov spoke again quickly. "Don't keep them waiting."

The firm handshake was little comfort. Price grasped for words of thanks that didn't come. "See you on the other side then, eh?"

"Oh we'll be seeing each other sooner than that." Kamarov chuckled. "You're not _that_ lucky."

"Don't I know it!"

"Go!"

Price couldn't help but look over his shoulder once or twice as he climbed back up the hill, watching the blinking flashes recede. It was getting easier to see, further and brighter. Dawn was coming.

* * *

Price continuously scanned the ground ahead as he zigzagged through the patchy trees crowning the mountaintop. Easier said than done, with only one-sided night vision to go by. He didn't need another fall, and he didn't need to be caught out in the open by following the path, though he was starting to second-guess that decision. There were no guarantees that he wouldn't run into any more landmines up here.

The thumping of the helicopters grew louder.

Come to think of it, there were no guarantees that some pilot with a minigun slaved to his helmet wouldn't think he was one of the bad guys. His own helmet strobe was long gone.

Over the sound of the approaching choppers, he heard a crackling exchange of gunfire, not far from where he and Kamarov's team had parted ways. Nothing they couldn't handle.

Thunderous noise engulfed him. A blacked-out helo passed overhead - the narrow, sharp angles of an Apache, another close behind it. They swooped around and dove over the crest of the hill like giant wasps. There was a third deeper, lower thump of another larger helo somewhere. An evac bird … and a possible QRF. He quickened his pace. The sounds faded as they made a first pass.

He stumbled to one knee, steadying himself against a tree trunk. Head bowed, eyes screwed shut, he concentrated on taking slow, controlled breaths. The pain and exhaustion were gaining on him, along with some bitter truths. Some of _those_ he'd been ignoring for months, years. He'd never fully recovered from his imprisonment. He should've listened, let the medics do their thing. He'd let his pride — he snorted. _If you want to call it that _— get in the way. He'd heard what he'd wanted to hear, and that hadn't been much, though Misha's warning about internal hemorrhage had stuck with him. He'd had a fool's luck, but he'd also taken yet another beating. Once they got to the safe house, he'd behave himself, take it easy…

He scowled. Bargaining — wasn't this what people did when they thought they wouldn't make it?

_No, 'Old Man'. You're not allowed. Not yet. _

Bringing his rifle back up, he pushed himself off from the tree. Put one foot in front of the other.

The confrontation behind him was escalating into a vicious firefight. It didn't make sense. _This lot should be scattering like cockroaches by now. They're certainly about to see the light._

He spotted the landmarks Kamarov had told him about. Halfway there. The sooner they got to their vehicle, the sooner they could get the hell out of this godforsaken place. His eyebrows quirked. Lovely country, at least he'd thought so during the very brief time he'd spent not being shot at. Maybe he'd appreciate it more once they'd made it up North. He'd be able keep a proper eye on Soap, at least, while they waited for Nikolai. Once again, the Russian pilot had the right connections _and_ their six. Africa was just the right part of the world to disappear in, perhaps for good. It was just as well. Every morning was a not-so-gentle reminder that he'd had enough cold and damp to last him a lifetime.

The radio chirped in his ear. "We see it, Ursus Six. Coming to you!" shouted Hagar.

That didn't sound like Kamarov had the situation under control after all. Price slowed his pace and cocked his head, listening. Despite the appearance of the gunships, the enemy fire had only intensified. They weren't going anywhere. They were engaging at close range, and moving closer, too close to be fired upon by air support. Help had arrived, except they wouldn't be able to do a damned thing. They wouldn't be able to shoot the enemy without hitting their own.

Echoes of gunfire galloped through the hillsides, along with the shouts of those fighting — and dying. It stung him. He'd spent over half his life running _toward_ those sounds.

Almost there.

Angry Russian chatter filled the radio. He stopped when he heard Sergei's name.

"Ursus Six, talk to me. What's happening, over?" said Hagar.

"They're trying to take the wounded," Kamarov's voice sputtered. "They've taken Sergei!"

Price's shoulders slumped. Kamarov's abandonment of radio protocol made it clear how he felt. They would use Sergei as a human shield, but it wouldn't likely stop there.

Price took a few steps … closer to the RV, Soap, and freedom. He stopped. Wincing momentarily, he let his head fall back, shoulders heaving. The sky above was growing paler.

He thought about the grisly photos and videos he'd seen on the Internet. About Kamarov's war stories. Captured Soviet soldiers had been found with their skin slitted at the waist, peeled up and tied over their heads, the less fortunate ones still alive.

The enemy's tactic would work as designed; they _would_ be divided and possibly conquered, because no one was about to abandon Sergei to his fate.

Including him. He turned on his heel and ran back the way he'd come.

* * *

It wasn't long before he saw them. Price remained stock-still, like the trees he stood among. Waiting. There were two of them on a narrow footpath down below — the same baggy black clothing, the wide, flat pakols on their heads, the drab chest rigs with the long AK magazine pouches. The rifles to match, grenades, knives. It was the limp body dangling between them that got his attention. Russian fatigues, no helmet … short blond hair. Head thrown back, hands and arms flopping, bootheels digging twin furrows behind him. The entire front of his shirt was a dark stain. But Sergei was alive, had to be, otherwise they had no reason to drag him this far.

Price's mouth hardened into a thin line. He didn't want to think about what that reason might be. Whatever these two cunts were playing at, they were about to face a change in plans.

_Far enough_. Gun up, Price kept his pace just behind theirs with soft footfalls, moving from tree to tree. Holding the live branches steady, picking his way through the dead ones underfoot.

As they disappeared and reappeared over the contours of the land, Price adjusted his angle of approach, choosing just the right moment to emerge from the trees. Staying low, he stalked down the slope, catlike, between the small rises and depressions. Dropping to a crouch, he got another quick glimpse of their cargo, who wasn't moving at all. Compared to his shirt, there wasn't much of a blood trail. Neither was a good sign, and he didn't even have so much as a field dressing. Sergei would just have to hold on until Price was able to hand him off to the Russians.

Hopefully they'd be the ones he'd run into first.

_Come on… _He still didn't have a shot. The mushroom-shaped hats bobbed up and down out of sight over the small hill Price was flattened behind. He was running out of time; he needed to hurry up and sort them out while there were still only two of them.

They stopped for a moment to catch their breath. _How very kind of them._ Waiting until they were looking the other way, he picked up a stone and flung it over their heads.

Startled, they let go of Sergei, who collapsed in a heap. The rifles came up, pointing in the wrong direction. Through one eye, Price watched a pakol fly off in a spray of mist, the dark body dropping like liquid. His AK swung left and barked again. The second man crumpled out of sight, screaming.

Curling his lip, Price strode out of cover, his rifle leading the way. Dickhead Number Two was writhing on the ground, gut shot, making a hell of a racket. _Ah, screaming for one's mum — the universal language._ Since Sergei lay right next to him, Price had to get a lot closer before he could shut him up.

Number Two rolled over, reaching a hand out, when he jerked twice in time to a lighter double crack from another rifle. Green landscape streaked past Price's front sight as he spun around.

"Price - friendly at your three o'clock."

_SHIT. _'Friendly' was a matter of perspective. Like 'friendly' fire. "I see you … Rerun?"

"Affirmative."

The compact, dark-haired Delta operator stepped forward, his HK 416 sweeping back and forth. Price did the same, putting his back to Rerun's as they moved in concert toward the two hostiles and their motionless captive. Price's jaws clamped together in anticipation of what he might find.

When he took a knee next to the pale body and finally got a good look, laying a hand on cold skin, it was all he could do to keep a straight face.

Not as straight as he would have liked, apparently. "That isn't one of Kamarov's guys. We've seen Chechens swelling their ranks lately. They might be behind some of their new tactics," said Rerun.

_Fucking brilliant. _He was no use to Soap dead. Now not only had he just risked getting killed by trying to save the wrong man, he'd just delivered himself right into the hands of the ones they'd been trying to avoid.

Soap would be waiting, but Price wouldn't arrive.

The Yank's NVGs darted everywhere, sparing Price a quick glance. "You look like I feel. What are you doing alone out here?"

His mind raced. In this case, the truth wouldn't hurt. "I kind of … fell off the mountain. Lost my bearings. Then a local bloke tried to give me a personal tour. I declined."

"You too, huh?" Rerun's own jacket and Crye combat trousers were torn. "Occupational hazard around here."

Kamarov… the bugger just _had _to go and say the sodding L-word, didn't he? The way Price's luck had been going, it made his lost 1911 seem more like a talisman than ever. Kamarov had been bloody well right about one thing: seeing him again, because now they'd have to think of something else, and fast. They'd have to get pretty creative in some of their explanations. He hoped it wouldn't come to that. It was a fair bet that the crowd of new American faces would know theirs.

"Markhor Nine - where the hell are you? Do you copy?" Hagar's voice crackled over the radio.

"I copy, Six. Got a little sidetracked. Making my way over to you."

"Negative. Start moving toward RV Charlie. We're going to try and herd most of them into one spot."

"Rog'." Rerun released his mic and resumed addressing Price. "If the people don't kill you, the land itself might."

"What's this?" Price saw light shining through one of the dead men's clothing. Using the peaked front sight of his AK, he pushed the fabric aside. Aghast, he picked up a cheap knockoff digital camera, looking at Rerun's IR image in the tiny glowing square.

"No shit." Leaning in to look at it, the American shook his head. "Something's changed. This isn't the same crew we were up against a couple of days ago. These guys are a new breed."

"More likely a very old one. Small wonder they were able to find us so easily in the dark," said Price.

"Yeah. And when we put our Fireflies on for the helos, we led them right to us."

The radio squawked again. "All units – package has been found. He's stable." said Hagar. "Markhor Nine, what's your ETA to the RV?"

Price's relief was cut short. "Solid copy, Markhor Six," said Rerun. "RV in ten mikes."

In less than ten minutes, he'd be as far from escape as it gets without being cuffed. That part would come later.

Jagged black peaks appeared against a flickering sky, followed by a couple of booms. The Apaches were emptying their rocket pods onto other targets near the HLZ.

There had to be another way. The Yanks would be preoccupied, busy with the wounded and the squirters…

The distant rotor beat swelled again. One of the choppers was about to make another pass overhead. "Speaking of Fireflies," Rerun dropped his rifle to hang from its sling, reaching for his helmet.

"If any of them are still about, they'll be all over us." More dim light from one of the bodies caught Price's eye.

Rerun sounded thoughtful. " _…_Yeah."

The thumping was getting loud now. In a moment it would drown out everything. Price held up another glowing object, this time a mobile camera phone with an IR function.

"Just going to have to take that chance," said Rerun, raising his voice to compete with the noise. He paused, sounding more hesitant. "At this point, I'd be more worried about… "

Price's chest thrummed. It was difficult to hear Hagar over the radio. "All units - has anyone seen Price?"

He could barely make out how Rerun finished his thought. " …fratricide."

Just as Price began his slow turn, a gunshot exploded somewhere to his left. Both he and Rerun hit the ground, Price dropping to his belly. He twisted his AK around in its sling and opened up in long bursts, hosing down the area where he'd seen the muzzle flash, until it clicked empty. As the overwhelming thump of the helo faded, replaced by his heart pounding in his ears, he strained to listen. Someone was yelling; he'd wounded them. He smiled grimly to himself. _Does that hurt, you bastard? Let me help you with that._

"Price!" The voice in his headset was one he'd heard before, the accent like his. He froze. "Price! Cease fire! Cease fire, for fuck's sake!"

"Who is that?" Price huffed.

No longer over the radio, the shout issued from somewhere in front of him. "We're coming out, now don't fucking shoot us. Stand down."

The barrel of his AK dipped, and he suddenly realized that Rerun hadn't said anything. Come to think of it, he hadn't fired a single shot. Price scooted backward on his knees, right hand still gripping his rifle, reaching his left hand out to push himself up while keeping his eyes on the approaching men. He expected to feel a rock but felt something soft instead. He patted along its surface. Fabric, laces … a boot. A leg.

He spun around – Rerun was splayed out beside him on his back, utterly still.

Two men were in front of him now, dressed and kitted out like Kamarov's Loyalists. One switched on his AK's tac light and began to slowly pan the red circle up along the Delta operator's body. They all flipped up their goggles and Price fished out his own red-lensed torch, following suit. There was a dark hole below Rerun's left eye, which stared in an unnatural direction. What had previously been the contents of his skull now pooled in the back his helmet, the gruesome signature of an AK round.

Smoke dribbled out of the rifle barrel, into the dim beam of light. Sucking a breath through his teeth, Price shined his light in the man's face. A pair of troubled blue eyes regarded him from beneath a furrowed brow. The hallmark bruised mask of a broken nose, a line of stitches over one eyebrow and a long scar dividing the other. "Soap!" Price gasped. "What the hell are you -" The look he received was enough to give him pause.

Armaan sighed angrily and turned his back to them, flipping his NVGs back into place and raising his own AK-74, keeping watch.

MacTavish lowered his gaze back to the dead operator, almost in reverence, and nodded as he panned the light across the body's upper half. "Look closer, Old Man." Soap's light traveled past the outflung right hand, further along the ground … to a Sig Sauer pistol, its hammer cocked.

Price's breath left him in a rush.

"Looks like we just crossed the Rubicon," said MacTavish.

This moment, and what passed wordlessly between them, was one that would forever burn itself into Price's memory. He looked back down again, taking in both the sight of the dead man and all that it meant.

_Alea iacta est._

* * *

_**Research-related tidbits and headcanon stuff can sometimes be found on urgentorange-dot-tumblr-dot-com. General nonsense can always be found there.**_

_**Alea iacta est –**_"The die is cast." Famously uttered by Julius Caesar when he crossed the river Rubicon under force of arms, an act of open rebellion against the Roman Senate. Anyone who gets the other reference here wins a free Internet! ;-)

_**Letiteh goloubi, letiteh [Летите голуби, летите] – **_"Fly pigeon, fly!" Reference to the old Russian film _Farewell to the Pigeons_. In this context, a pigeon being something that needs killing; a Russian take on 'Run Forrest run!'

**Potholing – **Caving, spelunking.

**RV - **rendezvous point


	18. HUMINT

**_LEGAL DISCLAIMER:_**_MacTavish, Price, Nikolai and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty:Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games._

**_This story is an AU.__Contains mature language_**

**A/N - **Thanks to **LisbetAdair** for her help with dialogue and patience with my odd questions. Thanks again everyone for reading/following and for your reviews, which are always very much appreciated!

* * *

He had to hold the zipper up as he pulled, to lift the black vinyl away from what remained of Rerun's face.

"Til we meet again, brother," said Hagar, resting a hand on the vinyl covering his former teammate's chest. He pushed himself up from his crouch to stare down at the body bag, which had been moved to the floor of a small storeroom to join the remains of their other KIA, Chapel. The edges of the dog tag bit into his palm, the chain dangling from his fist.

Behind him, Atticus glanced at the door to ensure it was shut, his Mississippi accent becoming more prominent with his soft question. "You believe Kamarov's story?"

"I believe Price fell down the hill. Mike said he saw him go over the edge, said it looked like he'd been hit. His knife, the blood, the drag marks – I believe _someone_ fell into that cave. In the shape he was in, I could also believe he could've been dragged off. Could've. Yet in the meantime, 'Lazarus' has risen, he and the 'terp are nowhere to be found … so to answer your original question, not a fuckin' word." Hagar looked down at the dog tag once more and dropped his hand to his side. "One of the pilots said she saw several hotspots and a couple of strobes leaving the area, before they just blinked out."

"Who's to say the bad guys didn't pick them up?"

"Who's to say it wasn't the 'good guys' all along? Getting harder to figure out which is which."

"Isn't it always the way. So they've legged it, now what?"

Hagar looked sideways at his XO. "Makes it easier if you ask me."

Atticus tilted his head toward the body bag. "You really think it was them?"

"We hear Armaan on the team net screaming at Price to cease fire, right before Josh goes dark, then they all disappear into thin air?"

"Tell you what man, I don't believe it. Sandman always spoke very highly of these guys. There's got to be more to the story."

"Agency seems to think so. But since almost half our men are either KIA or out of commission, I'm finding it increasingly difficult to give a fuck what the Agency thinks."

"We can't find out what happened if they're dead."

The door rattled open. "Gentlemen." The moment Buzz closed it behind him, the air in the room felt heavier. The good ol' boy persona was long gone. He eyed them both, then the body bags on the floor.

"Does this mean we have your blessing — and the coordinates?" Hagar asked.

"It does. Just keep it quiet."

* * *

The twisted remains of Nikolai's Little Bird still smoldered in the corner of the LZ, where the crews of the two Apaches and the Blackhawk prepared for takeoff. Newly-arrived US Army Rangers had joined Kamarov's Loyalists in securing the airfield. There had been surprisingly few bodies to deal with; the enemy had managed to drag off many of their dead. Now came the unpleasant task of picking up the pieces — literally — left behind by the Apaches' Hydra rockets.

As the remaining members of Hagar's team brushed past the two CIA men, Buzz caught a look from Mike. _And Junior gives me the stink eye. What's that all about? _They watched the Delta operators load up their gear while the rotors began to spin up.

"Brits aren't honoring the agreement. Not very gentlemanly, I'd say," said Buzz.

"It's their guys. Can you blame them?" Rev asked.

"No."

A small crowd soon followed, bearing several stretchers. Their occupants were wrapped in blankets, faces obscured by masks and tubes. Buzz recognized one of them as the big Russian, Bogdan. Terry brought up the rear, bagging Jake. As they loaded the casualties aboard the Blackhawk, it was clear that many of the helpers weren't needed; they had come to say goodbye. Buzz had watched this scene play out more times than he cared to admit.

Hagar was the last to leave. As he passed, Buzz yelled into his ear, though that was a losing battle against the mounting noise. "I trust you'll keep your team in check."

Hagar shouted back into his face. "Meaning _what?"_

This wasn't how he'd wanted to do this. "Vinson used to run with you guys, right?"

Hagar's stare got colder. "It won't be a problem."

"Those two are a potential goldmine of intelligence."

"We'll do our jobs." Hagar hitched his ruck over his shoulder, ending the conversation before he walked off.

Buzz mouthed exaggerated words he knew his partner could no longer hear: "That's what I'm afraid of."

* * *

"So tell me again why we're dumping the vehicle with the tinted windows and the air con?"

Soap's question was a fair one. Price looked at their driver.

"Trust me, this is the best way to blend in. C'mon mate, it'll be pimptastic." Keeping one hand on the wheel, Armaan handed Price a plastic carry bag and tossed one over the seat to MacTavish.

Price took a look in the bag and gave a half-hearted scoff, his hand flopping back down into his lap. A means to an end. Fine, as long it did the job and got them to the safe house.

"What the hell is this?" Soap asked.

"Your disguises."

The bag rustled in much the same way Price's had — from quickly being put down. "This just keeps getting better all the time."

"Look, I'm going to get you out of here, now just work with me, all right? If you've got a better idea, Braveheart, I'm all ears. Have either of you taken a good look at yourselves lately?" Armaan grimaced. "Faces that could make an onion cry. You're spoiling the scenery of my beautiful country."

"Don't listen to him, Soap." Price watched the 'scenery' scroll past: rocks, dirt and more rocks. "He grew up in Shepherd's Bush."

MacTavish quirked an eyebrow at that, but kept any curiosity he might have had to himself. He peered out his window, craning his head to look up at the sky.

"Oh do stop looking already," said Armaan. "At this point, we're in greater danger from the Yanks on the ground, who now have every reason to kill us accidentally on purpose."

_Not this again. _Price pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Well if some cunt hadn't gone and announced it over the radio — "

Price held up a hand in a time-out gesture. "All right." He won himself a precious 30 seconds of silence. It hardly seemed worth the extra throb in his head from raising his voice.

"Right now, we're probably a tiny square on some big screen, pegged by a white crosshair," said MacTavish. "And if he gets the order, some fresh-faced Air Force boy sitting somewhere out in America's heartland will push a button, and that will be that. He'll order a pizza and go home to the wife and kids. We'll never see it coming."

Price shook his head. "No, the political fallout from a direct strike would prove far messier than what would be left of us. Now, collateral damage from taking out a local target associated with Makarov - that might be easier to explain."

"Speaking of, you think he's left the country?"

"_Heh_, if he knows what's good for him," Price said over his shoulder, then went back to his brooding out the window. "They could spin it any way they want. They could follow the terrorist narrative, as in 'Shepherd was right, look who we found 'em in bed with'. Or they could go another way: 'No idea your SAS boys were out here, looks like they were "off the reservation" – set out after Makarov on their own, unsupported, unauthorized - got themselves caught in the crossfire. _Tsk, tsk. _Oh but their hearts were in the right place … _were_.'"

"That's what I love about you, Price," Armaan said. "Your boundless optimism." He looked over and frowned. "That's the most you've said for the entire trip. Far be it from you to shy away from the odd confrontation, but for fuck's sake, how many punch-ups have you been in lately?"

"Ask me next week," said Price tiredly. "How about you, Soap? How are you holding up?"

"Pretty fair, not bad."

Price gave a displeased rumble. In contrast, Soap had been far more talkative than usual, when he wasn't bickering with Armaan. "Your eyes look like headlamps. What did he give you again?"

"It didn't have a name, or he didn't say. Just that it was a mixture of painkiller and stimulant."

"You should be used to _that_ sort of thing, eh?" Armaan muttered.

Soap's jaw stuck out. "I don't drink that shite - "

"Am I going to have to stop this car?" Price's voice rose over them both. Armaan smirked as he navigated a sharp curve in the road. "A better question is, what happens when it wears off?"

"We should be there by then," said MacTavish.

Price sighed, massaging his temples. He knew why the lad had done it — a concept as old as the word 'assassin'. But in his experience, these things had proven to be more trouble than they were worth. Soap hadn't wanted to be a burden, yet this could backfire on him, big style. Such drugs weren't in widespread use for a reason.

When he looked up, Price saw that Soap hadn't merely been avoiding his question.

They had arrived.

* * *

It had always struck him odd, the mixture of ancient and modern, familiar and alien; Coca-Cola comes to Planet Tatooine. Other popular Western brand names stood out in a marketplace where, even with them, one couldn't be quite sure what year it was. A sign of a developing country, or one that refused to.

The stands were jammed together on either side of the dirt road, with faded awnings and makeshift overhangs of tarpaulins or corrugated tin. The air was a stifling miasma of livestock, wood smoke, baking bread, spicy food and open sewers, a combination which Price wished he could say he'd never smelled before.

The crowd was mostly men wearing the same baggy clothing in white or soft colors, long shirttails hanging below black vests. Turbans, pakols, embroidered skull caps. Full beards. Apparitions in light blue _burkhas_ drifted among them. With a lace panel covering the eyes, the head-to-toe veil rendered the wearer all but invisible. Along with most everything on the other side — Price could hardly see a damn thing out of his.

His peripheral vision was completely gone, his view of the world reduced to a small rectangular screen. A honking horn sent him darting aside as a yellow-and-white taxi nearly ran him down. Thankfully the bicycles and donkey carts outnumbered the motorized vehicles. Not that they were any less of a hazard; much of what he'd seen so far had been through near-collisions.

And there was plenty to see. Price looked over his shoulder at another veiled figure as he passed pushcarts laden with fruits and vegetables, some of which he didn't recognize. He wasn't sure if that was a nod he got in return; Soap couldn't afford to give him a more visible acknowledgement. Price turned back around to see cages of live poultry and hanging meat. A freshly killed goat was being butchered for a waiting customer, the flies moving in for the first taste. At least the veil hid Price's expression. The next stall was piled high with Persian rugs and woolen blankets like they'd had in the bunker. Across the road, a boy no older than 16 sat on the ground, hand machining a pistol. Swords and hundred year old rifles were on display behind him. It was all very interesting. Now if only Armaan would hurry the hell up.

Price and MacTavish looked virtually identical to the other women, including their trousers and footwear. Armaan was dressed like any other male in the small village. Yet the gawking had started the moment their car had rolled into town. It seemed that someone was poking his head out of every window and doorway. The ruse wouldn't last. Price glanced back at the shop Armaan had disappeared into, and almost bumped into a group of people buying helium balloons. The last thing he needed was someone trying to talk to him. _ Get your arse out here, kid._ It seemed to work; Armaan walked past a moment later.

The two 'women' fell into step behind him, and they walked in a huddle for a moment, their conversation unheard among the sounds of the market: shouting merchants and shoppers, blaring radios.

"Now remember ladies, ten paces behind me," whispered Armaan.

"I know you can't see it under this dress, mate, but believe me, I've got something for you to rotate on," replied the taller burkha. Price smiled beneath his.

"Savages - can't take you anywhere."

"You got us a new ride, then? What did you tell him?" MacTavish asked.

"That I had an offer he couldn't refuse – and that I like my women with a bit of meat on 'em"

"Aye, I bet you do."

They all fell silent, the passers-by not seeming to notice them for once. Several large and outrageously customized lorries were parked nearby. They had open flat beds, tall sides and huge crown-like rounded facades with matching arched frames in the back for tying things down. "Jingle trucks" — that's what Armaan had said they were called. Every inch of them was decorated with the intricacy of an old-fashioned merry-go-round, but with none of the subtlety. The colors were garish, the geometric designs almost dizzying, with level of detail that Price had to admire, though there was certainly no accounting for taste. Stickers, tassels, beads, chains, artificial flowers. Murals of all sorts, sayings in scrolling Arabic script. Bells jingled, warbling music blared. _To think people take LSD to see things like this … oh bloody hell._ Armaan led them straight to one with a bright orange Mercedes cab. Among countless other minutiae, it featured a portrait of a smiling woman on the back and winking eyes painted above the grille.

In a swirl of blue pleated fabric, MacTavish spun around for a quick look before whispering. "Is he taking the piss?"

If only. Climbing up into it was a painful adventure that made Price and Soap look more like elderly relatives than wives of the young Afghan man in the white shalwar kameez. Price could imagine the onlookers' tut-tutting now: _Poor bloke's got his hands full, don't he?_

Armaan swung himself up into the driver's seat, slammed the door. The lorry coughed to a start and idled while they waited for the others to pull out. "Nothing like hiding in plain sight. These pimped-out monsters are all over Afghanistan… " He paused to wait for a man passing close by, lowering his voice. " …_and _Pakistan. They're everywhere. Now we just need to hope the eyes above don't choose what's behind door number one."

* * *

**_DUBAI - LOCATION CLASSIFIED_**

With the bright wall of oversized flatscreens, the line of digital clocks in different time zones, the sea of glowing desktop computer monitors and muttering voices, the vast room looked like NASA's mission control. It was entirely drone camera feeds.

One man among the masses groaned and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Onscreen in front of him, veiled blue ghosts wove their way through the crowded marketplace. Past each other. Some with children, some without. Ducking in and out of sight beneath awnings and overhangs. There must have been fifty of them.

It didn't take long. He picked up the phone on the first ring, seeing the dreaded number form itself in the liquid crystal and just wanting to get it over with. He already knew what the caller was going to say.

"What do you mean, you lost them?"

* * *

The jingle truck lived up to its name as it jerked and swayed over the rocks of the shallow river crossing, the motion setting Price's teeth on edge. Thanks to the deep ruts in the road, they hadn't gotten far enough past the village to take off the sodding burkhas, so his fingertips digging into his knee remained hidden from view.

Not far past the river, they were forced to slow down again by of all things, traffic. The scene was a familiar one: a crowd of men and boys, barking dogs straining against rope and chain while money changed hands. The dogs were large, shaggy and feral-looking, with big blocky heads and ragged flaps that had once been ears. Many had their tails cut half off as well. The crowd gathered around two men, who barely managed to hold their dogs back as they snapped at each other, their faces mere inches apart.

MacTavish snorted. "Ugh. Nasty things, I hope they both lose."

Their handlers leaned in, and the two brutes hurled themselves into a frenzied knot, a cloud of dust and rubbish boiling up around them. Heads wrenched back and forth, red staining dirty white fur as the onlookers shouted, fists pumping.

Armaan grinned. "Aww, mate – how can you resist something as cute and cuddly as a kutchi dog?"

Though Price didn't feel much like talking, they both needed to get their minds off things, even if just for a few minutes. "Looks a bit like the kind that took a chunk out of you, eh Soap?"

"That was no dog, that was a fucking bear."

"Ah," Armaan jerked the wheel to avoid a massive pothole. "Ran afoul of man's best friend, did we?"

"You might say that."

"Soap has no great love for dogs. They certainly seem to be fond of _him_, though. The taste of him, anyway." Price eyed MacTavish for a second. "Let's put it this way: he's no stranger to jabs in the arse." Soap straightened a little. "Think I didn't know about your other canine mishap?" Price returned to staring out the window, well aware of the hidden scowl emanating from the back seat. "Don't blame Nikolai. To his credit, it wasn't easy to get it out of him."

"Well?" Armaan looked back and forth between them.

"It's all fun and games until someone passes out from blood loss," said Price.

Soap sighed at Armaan's expectant look. "We'd gotten word that Makarov was revisiting old haunts, and had holed up in some Azeri farmhouse, just like 'daddy' had done. When we got there, the place was empty, more or less. Since the door has been left open, animals had wandered in. Some chickens were scuttling about, and a goat was quite put out by our sudden presence. We'd spread out to clear the rooms when I hear a rustle and there's this explosion of feathers, chickens squawking and flapping all over, and this snarling thing is on me like absolute lightning. I'm a decent-sized bloke, but this dog was almost as big as me, bowled me over like I was a little kid. It was clearly trained to attack, but not in the typical Russian working dog way. More like the French way - this mutt was trained to go for the crotch. He had me on my back, kicking and screaming my head off as he tore at me. All I could see was teeth. I had my pistol out and was trying to figure out a way to slot him without shooting myself when Ghost sprayed him – and me – with a fire extinguisher. Disorientated him long enough for the both of us to say 'down boy'. Fuck me, he was enormous. Bloody great furry thing, something Ghost called an of … of chucka... "

"Ovcharka," said Price. "Caucasian Ovcharka. Georgian shepherd dog."

"Right. It was a night raid, couldn't really see what was going on, we'd dressed the part in our black assault ninja kit. It was all a huge laugh, of course. Relief, aye, but mostly from the sheer ridiculousness of it. Good thing no one else was there - any attempt at remaining covert had gone out the window, we were all giggling away like big girls, me most of all as I limped along, the adrenaline was still flowing. So much that I didn't notice what else was. Next thing I knew, Simon was leaning over me."

Price caught a fleeting odd look on Armaan's face. He filed that one away for later as Soap continued.

"The tourniquet, that hurt worse than the bites. I mumbled something about how stupid it would be, after everything – and how _typical_ - after cheating death against impossible odds, averting nuclear disaster, Queen, country and all that shite, to die from a dog trying to bite off my bollocks. As ever, my savior was all heart: 'No, that would be far too stupid, even for a wanker like you.' The mutt had gotten me good – apart from almost ending the MacTavish family line, he'd torn a deep gash behind my knee, deep enough to redecorate the wainscoting before I'd noticed the squishing in my boot. Jimmy quickly got the bleeding under control, though. At the time, I still didn't know whether Price was going to join the team or not, he hadn't returned my calls. When I woke the next morning, there he was in the corner, holding court from some naff hospital armchair." Soap imitated Price's voice: "_Not much has changed, I see_."

The chuckle bubbling out of Price ended as a wheeze. He clutched at his sides, the coughing an agonizing but necessary evil to clear the rattle from his lungs.

"All right, Old Man?"

Focusing on the cracked dashboard in front of him, Price did his best to pull himself together. "No."

MacTavish sounded startled by the blunt admission. "You should take something."

"Already did. This is as good as it gets." Open roadway finally lay ahead; they'd soon be able to remove the veils. As they passed a roadside football game, one boy out of the teenaged flock of fluttering shirttails and white skullcaps caught Price's eye - he was wearing a tattered blue New York Yankees baseball cap. There it was again, the strange collision of different worlds.

"Can't stop and rest yet either. We need to make up for lost time," said Armaan. He frowned up at the darkening sky through the pitted windscreen. "Brilliant. Just one more thing we don't need."

* * *

The boy in the Yankees cap stared down the road after the truck. He ignored the ball as it rolled past him and the corresponding shouts from his teammates.

Orange cab, winking eyes on the front, lady on the back - that was the one.

With a quick goodbye to his puzzled friends, he swung a leg over his bicycle and pedaled away at top speed.


	19. Pashtunwali

**_LEGAL DISCLAIMER: _**_MacTavish, Price, Nikolai and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty:Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games._

**_This story is an AU.__Contains mature language._**

_**A/N – **Not quite betaed, so any mistakes are on me. Thanks again to **LisbetAdair **and **SassySatsuma** for answering my oddball questions, and to **ChiefArmourer **for your review. Feedback is welcome and appreciated._

* * *

_****__x:x:__x:x:__x:x:__x:x:__x:x:__x:x:__x:x:__x:x:__x:x:__x:x:__x:x:__x_

* * *

"Nice mobile," MacTavish nodded at the tiny yellow plastic phone in Armaan's hand. It looked like it was all the rage ten years ago — in Japan. "When's your ma coming to pick us up?"

"Does the job," said Armaan. "Since nothing says 'here we are' quite like firing up an encrypted sat-phone. Even _you_ know that." He walked off to make his call, ignoring MacTavish's two-fingered salute.

Now mercifully free of the burkhas, they'd stopped on a hilltop to stretch their legs. Soap wasn't sure what was worse, bouncing around in the lorry for hours or the act of getting out of it. Price had moved even more slowly than he did, and had hardly said a word.

Soap caught himself cradling his wounded abdomen, which throbbed despite the drug cocktail he'd been given. With a flickering glance around, he dropped his hand to his side. _Better harden the fuck up._ _Spent enough bloody time being a liability, now after what he's risked to get me out of here, well ... it's not a fucking option anymore, is it?_

He stopped worrying whether the Old Man had noticed. Price stood in front of the jingle truck's ticking front grille, one painted eye looming on either side of him, arms folded, with an expression that said he had other things on his mind. They both watched Armaan's pacing come to a stop, then the change in his posture. After removing the phone's battery, he returned, his blank face concealing what his body language hadn't.

"Problem?" Price asked.

Armaan hesitated. "Looks like we're in for nasty weather."

"No, really?" said MacTavish. The sky was leaden, the smell of rain in the air. "A blind man could tell there's a storm coming at this point." They both ignored him.

"I recall you lecturing me once about trusting my instincts. What do yours tell you, Price?" When he didn't answer right away, Armaan spoke again, a little too quickly. "Mine tell me we need to wait this out."

Price returned Armaan's pale green stare in kind. He'd caught something else from that exchange, but the glance he finally gave MacTavish was unreadable.

"What about getting there before dark?" Soap asked, wishing darkness was the thing that actually concerned him.

"This shouldn't last long, few hours maybe. We can still make it," said Armaan.

_A few more hours … of borrowed time._

They took in the view, eyes following the winding dirt road downhill to yet another vast, flat expanse. The lone house was like most MacTavish had seen, a nondescript mud brick affair surrounded by tall walls. Like a big brown box sitting inside another, with the occasional splash of color from hanging laundry, painted metal window grates and the red tractor that Soap doubted was even from the 20th century, let alone this one. There was a small assortment of livestock and some patchy fields out back. Beyond that, a gray layer of cloud was settling over black craggy mountain peaks that Soap knew were further away than they appeared. He felt a pang of familiarity — they looked all the world like Corrag Bhuidhe. Like home.

"There will be rockfalls, mudslides. A heavy downpour could wash the road right out from under us," Armaan said. "Whoever lives in that house down there, we're about to pay them a visit."

* * *

**-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

"_Right _hand," Armaan hissed. Soap withdrew his left, trying not to let his annoyance show. Following the others' lead, he scooped up some rice with his fingers and managed to get most of it in his mouth.

He was thankful for the cushions they'd been given to sit on; the frayed Persian carpet provided little padding from the bare ground beneath. They all sat cross-legged, boots off, around a tablecloth spread out on the floor, eating from communal dishes. There was the _pillau_, rice with meat, raisins and vegetables mixed in; naan bread, nuts and some wrapped candies. He could tell they were being offered the very best these people had. Time and again he'd seen it, how the greatest generosity was often found in the humblest of places. Though he didn't have much of an appetite, it would have been rude to refuse, so he chewed the same mouthful until it practically slid down on its own, praying it would help settle the jittery, sick feeling that had been creeping up on him. Besides, him turning down a free meal … _that_ would get the Old Man's antennae up for sure.

Their host Ramesh, a slight man dressed in long drab browns with the tail of his gray striped _lungee _turban draped over his shoulder, had served them _chai_. His wife had disappeared. MacTavish hoped it had nothing to do with his earlier attempt to thank her for their hospitality, another cock-up that Armaan had been quick to correct. _Oi - don't speak to her, don't look at her, _he'd said sharply.

Ramesh, he'd learned, was in his late thirties, yet he looked older. His brown face was lined, his black beard half gray. Soap could see how life here could quickly age someone, especially working on this small farm. He wondered where the man's sons were, and after Armaan's tales of local militias and organized crime, he thought it best not to ask.

Though their arrival had resulted in some initial consternation, the sky-blue wooden gates had soon swung open to admit them to Chateau Adobe. As they'd crossed the courtyard, black-and-white rabbits ambled out of their path, seeking shelter from the rumbling thunder.

Now the rain was coming down outside to match the torrent of Pashto inside. Ramesh had been initially cautious and soft-spoken. He smiled at Armaan.

"He's loosening up a bit," said Soap.

"What do you know, I might actually be good for something," said Armaan.

MacTavish shot him a withering look. "He didn't seem too keen on having us at first."

"It's not about what he wants, it's a matter of honor, of doing what's right. We needed shelter and he must offer it."

"_Pashtunwali," _said Price. Heads turned; this was the most he'd said since they'd gotten there.

"Exactly," said Armaan.

Ramesh refilled Price's glass with hot green tea. He nodded a mumbled thanks and touched his hand to his chest as they'd seen Armaan do.

As long as MacTavish had known him, Price had been relentless, tireless, switched on 24-7. If you got unlucky in combat, you could count on him being in your face within seconds, screaming at you to get up, no matter what state you were in. And if you had a shred of ability left, you fucking did it.

Now he tried to remain nonchalant about Price's silence, his distant look and stiff uneven gait, like dignity was the only thing still holding him up. Soap knew better than to ask about it, much less offer assistance; he didn't need any more holes in him. "I'm still waiting for mine to cool down and you're on your second one? Business as usual, then. Good. A hot brew will put you right, always does."

Price grunted in reply. Ramesh sat back down and the conversation continued, most of it unintelligible. Soap sipped his chai and almost gagged - there was about an inch of sugar in the bottom of the glass.

"Turns out we were right to stop here. He says that where we're going, the jingle truck would never make it. You ever see the guys on the telly, _World's Most Dangerous —_" Armaan waved an impatient hand "—_whatever_, driving these beasts over narrow mountain roads, arse end dangling halfway off a cliff?" He took a drink, glancing down at his glass with a hum of approval. "I'm not one of those guys."

"Well thank fuck for that." MacTavish suddenly grew self-conscious of his swearing, wondering if this bloke knew what the word meant.

"Ramesh is willing to swap vehicles with us."

"The bit of extra money help make up his mind, did it?" Soap sampled one of the candies, pleased to discover it was toffee.

"It didn't hurt. As soon as the weather clears, we'll take his car."

"One that actually runs, I hope. "

"How else would he be rid of us?"

"Fair point."

Soap turned at a soft bump on the carpet behind him. It was Price's empty tea glass, rolling away from limp fingers. His head nodding down on his chest, Price began to slump over, and startled awake when Soap caught him by the shoulders. "Whoa … hey! Price?"

"Wha – Soap? Sorry," he said, blinking.

They were all at his side in seconds, a hushed flurry of Pashto between Armaan and a distressed-looking Ramesh, who each took an arm and got Price to his feet. He swayed unsteadily as they led him over to the worn sofa in the next room. "Come on, Old Man. Time you got your head down for a while," said Soap. Not a word of protest either — now was the time to start worrying — until they lowered him down.

"No – I can't," Price gasped, wincing.

MacTavish cringed inwardly. The ribs – of course, how could he be so daft? His own discomfort was starting to distract him. What food he'd forced down his neck hadn't done him much good. If anything the sickness was getting worse, and so was the dull pain in his belly. _Shite. Not yet, not now._

Armaan explained the situation to Ramesh, whose wife reappeared with some pillows to prop him up with. Soap respectfully averted his eyes until she left. By the time they draped a blanket around Price's shoulders, he was already asleep. Responding to Soap's troubled expression, Armaan spoke with Ramesh further in even tones, then touched his hand to his chest in gratitude. "He says he couldn't bear to see his guest suffer any longer. He put some opium in his tea."

"What?" MacTavish glared at the man.

Armaan stepped in front of him, putting his hands up. "All right, calm down, Smeato. It's common practice here to chase away the aches and pains. Not like they can just nip 'round the corner to the chemist, yeah?"

The jibe had no real bite to it this time; to Soap it sounded more weary than anything. Since his phone call, Armaan seemed to have suddenly lost interest in his favorite sport, pissing him off. MacTavish wasn't so sure he liked this change of heart.

"He's sure he didn't overdo it, more likely Price is just knackered - he'll be fine. He probably hasn't had any proper kip since he first was injured, and this is the most comfortable he's been since. You ever cracked a rib before?"

"Oh aye, I know."

"When we get to the safe house, my mate Blue was one of the best medics in the Army. He'll sort you both out."

MacTavish's eyes narrowed. "Will he? And just who else is waiting for us?"

"Remember when I said you two still have friends in low places?"

"_Who else_, Armaan? You've danced around my questions all day long. I'm not asking again, so you'd best cut the crap."

Armaan sat down on the end of the sofa, resting his elbows on his knees. He sighed. "All right, then. It's going to be a bumpy ride in more ways than one." He looked up at Soap. "You know this. But my mates and I, we're going to get you home. You've heard of the Increment, yeah?"

Soap's eyebrows shot up at the mention of the deniable paramilitary intelligence unit, mostly comprised of former members of the SAS, SBS and SRR. He nodded. "The Increment … E Squadron, or whatever they call themselves now. Can't say I know much about them."

"And rest assured, that's just how we like it." Armaan's trace of a smile was both affectionate and wistful. "But I _can_ tell you that's how I know Price. I'm guessing he disappeared on you for a while?"

"Thought someone might have finally gotten lucky."

"No, fortunately not. I don't think the secret squirrel thing was really for him, though he was rather good at it. Ever the fan of the more straightforward approach. But he's getting a bit long in the tooth to be kicking down doors, and I think he knows it."

They both turned at the drowsy murmur behind them. Price's eyes remained closed beneath the downturned brim of the boonie hat. "My ears are still in full working order … y' jumped-up … little shit."

"See, mate – he's feeling better already." Armaan stood up. "What do you say we leave him to it, eh?"

"Aye," said MacTavish, deflating the attempt at humor with a look that would have done the Old Man proud. "We'll do that, and then you're going to start talking, _mate_."

* * *

**-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

For the first time since he couldn't remember, Price felt warm and comfortable. Nothing hurt. The rain's soothing sound and clean smell had teased him from dreamless slumber, but just barely. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had that, either. One of his favorite indulgences on a rare morning at home was a lie-in like this, listening to the rain, then a nice big breakfast fry-up. The sounds of the rainfall outside his kitchen window and the sizzling frying pan always complimented each other so brilliantly. But a distant unease pulled at him, dragging him from this pleasant unreality. He sat up with a groan, wrinkling his nose. No smells of coffee or bacon. More like musty wool and manure. He was alone. Shit, what time was it?

His head felt fuzzy, but getting up wasn't as bad as it had been. He went into the next room where Armaan looked up from his quiet conversation.

"Where's Soap?" His alarm grew at the look on Armaan's face. Even Ramesh looked sorrowful.

"You'd better go talk to him, John. I wanted to wait until you'd woke up, wait for the right time to tell you both … but there never was a right time."

"For _what?_" Price's quick strides ended when he rounded the corner, at once terribly aware of what he saw yet unsure of what to say.

Soap stood in the open doorway, his arms at his sides, a shadowy figure staring out into the gray curtain of rain that beat down on him. His soaked clothing clung to his skin. The downpour bounced off him in a spray, his shoulders listing up and down like a ship in a stormy sea.

It was the best Price could come up with. "You know you're not supposed to get the bandages wet."

"Bit late for that." MacTavish's voice was flat, toneless. "Armaan, he told me a few things, like how you two know each other." The puddle around his boots shimmered, water dripping from his fingertips. So that's what you'd been up to after you got back, and what I couldn't get out of you in the pub."

"Next time, try better whiskey. Now what's wrong?" Price unclenched his teeth, waited for it.

"They found them." The look over his shoulder didn't quite reach Price, though he could see Soap's jaws working. "What was left of the 141 in the Caucasus." Price slowly lowered himself onto a wooden bench to hear the rest. "Our guys got to the house first, some of the Increment lads. Bodies everywhere. Makarov's men, ours. Chopper had touched down in the field nearby, big one – like a Pave Low." A sudden indrawn breath. "That's where they found Gary and Simon."

Soap turned, his face now visible in profile. "Both had been shot at close range with a .44." The next words died on his lips; his forehead rumpled as he glanced upward.

"So Shepherd did the honors himself," said Price softly.

"They'd left the jerrycans lying around. Couldn't be arsed to finish what they'd started." Soap's voice began to crack. Price closed his eyes, hung his head for a moment. "They'd thrown them into a shallow pit first, but that was all. Dental records were just a formality, their dog tags were still on, still readable."

Drops swelled and broke from the mohawk's dark wet points plastered to his forehead, streaking down his face. More water brimmed in his eyes as he choked the words out. "If they'd been that much in a hurry, you think Shepherd even gave a shit about whether or not they were dead first, before he - " With a shuddering inhale, the taut line of his lips twisted; another drop rolled down to mix with the rain. Price looked away. "Or maybe his lackeys did that."

"I'm sorry, son." Five years later, the words sounded even more futile to Price, coming from own mouth.

Soap stepped in through the doorway, out of the rain. He scrubbed a hand across his eyes, fingers tracing the scar. "And how will they be remembered? _Our_ epitaph, that's one thing. We knew what we were getting into here. But now they're guilty by association, right? After everything, all we've been through - that traitorous _cunt_, Shepherd - he's dead, and it doesn't change a fucking thing."

"The truth still lives in _us_. As long as we have breath in our bodies, we have the power to change that."

"How? You played right into his hands, mate. He had to be rid of us, and you gave him a way out. Once that missile was in the air, our fates were sealed. Good luck explaining that one. 'Aye, sure, we nuked America – but we're not terrorists, we're just misunderstood!' All I could think of was, what had you done? What had _I _done?"

"A few times in your life, if you haven't had them already, there will be these … moments. Where everything is clear to you. Crystal. Right, wrong, they don't exist. You know right then what you have to do, then afterward you learn how to live with it."

"That's the real trick, isn't it?" Soap wiped his face again. "Gary's family, his sister - they need to hear about how proud I was of him, how proud they should be. Now I won't get the chance."

"He was a good kid. Reminded me a lot of you, back when you first started."

"And Simon, with no family left to tell." At last, Soap's reddened eyes came in for an accusatory landing. "How does it feel, knowing those were your last words to him?"

Price stared past him at the runoff from the roof, a splashing line in the dirt. "While he might've needed to wind his neck in, he didn't deserve that." He sighed. "It took some doing, to stun you lot into silence."

"He pretended to not give a shit, like always. But you'd gotten to him, I could see it. Nobody had the minerals to say anything, though, not even me. Now I live with that."

"You can't take it back, Soap. I can't take it back. I'm not proud of what I did."

"After all the uncertainty, thinking you were dead … it wasn't exactly the reunion we thought it would be."

A rumble of thunder broke the steady drumbeat of the rain and the constant tapping from a leak in the ceiling. MacTavish was the first to break the long silence. "Hit pretty close to the mark, did he?"

"Yeah, there was no fooling him. Hell, he never trusted Shepherd any more than I did." Price's eyebrows lifted as he quoted Simon's words. "'Not fit for command'. He was right, you know. But I wasn't about to let anyone keep me out of the fight, especially not your medic."

Though the angry flare of blue suggested what might come next, it didn't. Silent seconds ticked past in time with the dripping water, until MacTavish surprised Price by switching to an even more unwelcome subject. "All those things you told me, about what they did to you. That wasn't all, was it?"

"No."

"Misha told me something right before I left –"

Price stiffened.

"Said to tell you … it gets easier."

Price exhaled a long slow breath from his nose. "It will. This will."

"And what happens when we get tired of running?"

"Only one way to find out. I'll tell you one thing for free, though." He stood to face Soap, with a resolute shake of his head. "I won't be captured again."

* * *

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_**Pashtunwali**_** – **[Pashto: پښتونوالی ] "The way of the Pashtuns", a tribal honor code emphasizing ten principles which include sanctuary (_nanawatai_), hospitality (_melmastia_) and vengeance (_badal_).

**SBS – **Special Boat Service

'**Smeato' – **John Smeaton, a former baggage handler at the Glasgow International Airport. Enjoyed 15 minutes of fame in 2007 during a failed terrorist attack by running up to one of the terrorists and kicking him in the groin. When asked for his message to the terrorists in a press interview, replied "This is Glasgow; we'll set aboot ye."

**SRR – **Special Reconnaissance Regiment

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	20. Choke Point

_**LEGAL DISCLAIMER: **__MacTavish, Price, Nikolai and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty:Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games._

_**This story is an AU. Contains mature language and graphic violence.**_

_**A/N: **__Here it is – the third and final year of the series, since it's gone on too long to be called a story anymore, IMO. I'm determined to finish it before another one rolls past! Thanks to __**ChiefArmourer, Ordnance, **__and __**Sassy **__for keeping me going with your reviews! I can't properly express how much your kind words mean to me. It's such a massive relief to have soul sister, scientist, uber beta__ and warrior princess **Sassy Satsuma**__ back in the house - I can't find all the secret sauce without you! __I'm so glad you like those references, since it's so much fun to plant them. ;-) (The references are to __**Sassy's 'Caught in the System'**__, which can also be found on this site). As ever, thank you so much — I probably spent more time agonizing over that rain scene than any other. _

_Thanks everyone for reading, and please let me know what you think._

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* * *

Soap jerked his head up with a gasp, wide-eyed, though he hadn't been asleep. His skin crawled and his scalp hurt, like he had the flu. He looked down at his own trembling hand, clenching his fist to make it stop.

It wasn't like they hadn't warned him.

Price sat next to MacTavish in the back seat, looking out the window. To Soap's relief and surprise, he hadn't seemed to notice. By the time they'd all piled into Ramesh's aged white Toyota Corolla, the Old Man was as switched on as ever. Soap wished he could say the same for himself. Now it was all he could do to stay alert. A terrible heaviness weighed on his body; he hadn't felt this exhausted since the day he'd woke up after surgery. Yet he was twitchy as hell, startled like an infant by every rattle and judder of the vehicle.

It had still been the right choice — the _only _choice. So he had to keep reminding himself.

"So what happens if the wrong people see the Magic Bus parked back at the farm? Ramesh can't hide that from anyone. Is he going to get a bullet in the head for helping us?" Soap asked.

Armaan's eyes found his in the rear view mirror while a few stray raindrops tapped the windscreen. "Probably not, anyone else here would have done the same. He might get a nastygram nailed to his front door, though."

A CD, Arabic script squiggled across it in black marker, hung from the mirror. The car didn't have a CD player. Soap had to stop looking at it, the flashing and swinging back and forth made him feel ill. The car plowed through a deep puddle, slowing down, a tall brown wave fountaining up around them. He gritted his teeth; getting stuck was the last thing they needed. They'd lost several hours as it was.

They wove between some huge potholes. Feeling dizzy from the sudden motion, MacTavish squirmed in his seat. The sore lump on his hip was almost a welcome distraction from the constant pain in his belly. The jab had at least given him a chance to function semi-normally, and if it hadn't been for the delay, it would have worked out fine. But it had been a trade-off, an overdraft of his already meager energy reserves, and had long ceased to keep his discomfort in check. Now every bump in the road made him hope the safe house was around the next bend. There'd been a lot of bends so far — and a lot of bumps.

_By the time the day is done, so are you, _Misha had told him. _Get to safety as soon as you can. Then pain meds, a sleeping pill and don't plan on going anywhere for at least eight hours. You'll sleep through the worst of it._

That _had_ been the idea, at least. But he'd gambled and lost. He wondered how much worse it was going to get. If they ran into any drama now, he was quite confident that he, John James MacTavish, couldn't fight his way out of a paper bag. That, and he'd find out exactly what Price had meant when he'd said he wouldn't be recaptured.

_No. Not going to happen, not because of me. We've come too far. If we die here in the dirt, then so does the truth. We'll make it; we __**have**__ to, and not just for Simon, Gary and the others. This is bigger than all of us._

_Almost there now._

They heard the river crossing long before they saw it. The slab of concrete traversing the riverbed now lay well out of sight beneath a raging torrent. High muddy waters lapped at the edge of the road, swirling past broken tree branches and other debris. It would have been too risky in the truck, let alone the car.

Armaan sighed. "Right. The long way it is."

* * *

**-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

Delta had been flattened against the crest of the opposite hill with scopes and binoculars for well over a half hour.

Three hundred meters away, the lone hilltop compound looked deserted. All they could hear was wind, which continued its work on the tattered red, green and black flag flying over what was best described as a fortress. In that respect, it didn't look that different from other homes in the area. Except in this case the high wall was constructed of gray concrete instead of mud brick, with steel gates, razor wire and security cameras. It surrounded a matching two-story structure with narrow, shuttered glass windows.

"It's official — Kamarov's safe house is the worst kept secret in Afghanistan," said Kurt. "The tower, eleven o' clock."

Following his directions, Hagar spied the new addition sitting on the green plastic lawn chair that peeked out along the top the wall: the rucksack with the flag patch, placed there to let them know they were being watched as well. He stood up, squinting, and dusted himself off. "Well gents, let's go down and meet the Brits."

* * *

**-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

He knew it was just a matter of time before he was rumbled, before he began to look how he felt. Like a bag of shite.

"Soap - look at me."

_Bollocks._

They were the _same rank,_ for fuck's sake. But Price's demanding tone always made MacTavish feel like the FNG all over again. Just as he'd figured, one look was all the Old Man needed.

"Armaan — how much longer?" Price asked.

"While that bridge being out didn't help us, another hour and he'll be tucked up in bed where he belongs," said Armaan. "That means you too, Price."

Soap drew a hand across his forehead, wiping away a fine sheen of sweat, though the temperature inside the car was otherwise comfortable. "Some pair we make, eh? The disabled duo." His jokes were apparently no stronger than he felt; Price didn't seem too impressed with that. Then again, he'd been like an iceberg since they'd left the house, speaking only when he had to.

Armaan had been subdued as well. Not surprising, given the news he'd had to deliver.

The silence merely amplified the echo of what was missing. MacTavish needed some sort of safe, mundane crap to fill the empty space, and quickly, before something else did. Reminders were everywhere, no matter where he looked.

The barren landscape had become more rugged as they'd gained altitude, with more patches of green and the occasional village that looked like piled-up brown matchboxes nestled in the foothills. They'd climbed way up a narrow road skirting the edge of a steep mountainside. More often than he cared to, when Soap looked out the window he could see straight down, watching small stones bounce away into nothingness as they passed, until they shrank out of sight. Beyond that, a deep gorge spread out before him, the surrounding mountaintops still fringed with gray wisps of cloud from the retreating storm.

The last time he'd seen such a view, Roach had been with him.

He remembered how, as he'd finished his cigar, momentarily lost in the smoke and his own musings, he'd sensed that Gary had something on his mind. But the weather had been coming in and they'd needed to get moving, so instead of asking, he'd told him 'break's over'. Now he'd never know what it was.

Against his will, the images were taking shape in his mind, like a horror film that he couldn't stop watching. Gary and Simon lying on the ground in spreading pools of blood, maybe even still moving … the petrol splashing over them, their last breaths stolen by shimmering fumes…

He couldn't shut his eyes tightly enough. _Stop._

He'd spent half the day wishing Armaan would shut up. At this point he'd welcome the insults to his culture, his manhood, the usual — although his ma was still off limits. Bring it on, but say _something_.

He soon regretted it when Armaan started humming. At first it was toneless, under his breath, until the recognizable tune took shape. Cheerful. Catchy.

_Fuck me_.

Soap leaned back against the headrest and rolled his eyes. "_Bad Moon Rising_?" He shot a look into the rearview mirror at him, meeting Price's cool stare. "Really, mate? I hate that shite."

Still no witty comeback. Just a shrug, and Armaan flipped on the radio, twisting the dial through a long line of static until he landed on a crooning male voice and twanging strings.

A simultaneous groan of annoyance rose from the back seat. "So he cranks up the Bollywood instead. Are you done pissing us about?" asked Soap.

"It's not bloody Bollywood, it's Zahir," Armaan's mumbled reply sounded like it stopped just short of 'you bell-end' — that was more like it.

"Who the hell's that?"

"Afghan Elvis." Armaan turned the dial again. "Hold on – up where we are we just might be able to get the news." He found something faint, an Irish woman's voice.

"Turn it up," said Soap.

" – widespread protests across Europe. France and Germany are expected to follow suit. The last remaining Russian diplomats have been expelled from the United Kingdom in response to both increasing international tensions and last month's death of a Russian Loyalist dissident in London, which the Prime Minister now calls 'a brazen assassination by the usual suspects, the Russian Federal Security Bureau.' Siobhan Cowgory, BBC news."

"There we go," said Armaan.

"Took 'em long enough," said Price.

An English female voice came on. "Breaking news – the man in charge of both the American efforts to defend against the Russian invasion and to track down international terrorist Vladimir Makarov is de –" Both Soap and Price hissed in irritation as the station faded out, but it came back again. " — popular United States Army general was also known for being controversial at times, particularly in his stance regarding female soldiers in special operations roles. Shepherd died when his helicopter crashed in Afghanistan, killing everyone on board. Both the Central Intelligence Agency and the US military have declined to give furth - " At the next curve in the road, the station dissolved into static and didn't return, leaving nothing but the hum of the car and the look shared between Soap and Price at the disinformation being fed to the media. What did it mean, and more importantly, what did it mean for _them_?

The reason for the interference was rising up on Soap's side of the road, which had left the mountain face. Now walls of rock on either side formed a narrow passage — a textbook choke point. Reaching beneath the burkhas draped across their laps to grip the AKs lying alongside their legs, they began to scan the ledges above for threats.

* * *

**-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

So far, so good. The rock had reached a sheer height on one side and opened back up on the other to reveal that they were almost down the mountain. "Not long now, eh?" asked Soap, trying not to sound desperate.

Armaan nodded, focused on the sharp curves ahead. "Our pilot will be here tomorrow."

"So Nikolai's done work with you as well?"

"He's a good man to know, him and Kamarov both."

"He's changed a lot, Kamarov," said Soap, feeling a vague sense of unease — the others didn't seem to share his relief at their progress. He looked over at Price. "This isn't the same guy that you let Gaz slap around."

Price gave a bemused grunt. "You can't argue that he deserved it at the time."

"Oh aye. For a bloke who abseils out of helicopters, who'd knew he'd be that afraid of heights?"

"Gaz, apparently." Soap managed a weak smile at that. "Context is everything – Kamarov's not being dangled headfirst out of one, is he? But you're right, he's not the same," said Price, his previously grim demeanor returning.

"I wonder how he and his lads are getting on. The natives have gone way beyond restless. He's going to have to make a move soon," said Soap, hoping to keep the conversation going. "Might not be worth it to hold that bunker much longer, unless he can afford to lose more logistics and manpower to that lot."

"The time was coming, even before last night's attack," said Price. "He told me that they were ready to move forward to the next phase. He asked if we'd join him, you know."

Soap quirked an eyebrow. "What did you say to that?"

"Aside from the obvious reason why not, I told him neither one of us is physically up to the task —"

"Heads up - civilians," Armaan said urgently, turning the radio back on for some background noise to cover their conversation.

Soap and Price hurriedly ducked down to pull their burkhas over their heads. _Just two birds in the back seat, nothing to see here, _thought MacTavish_._ 'Afghan Elvis' was back on the job, with a seventies-sounding rockabilly number. _Just how old is this shite anyway?_ Come to think of it, that question applied to just about anything in this country.

Up ahead, an elderly man in a white turban and teenage boy stood beside their car, which sagged on its flat left rear tire. Even if it hadn't been in the middle of the road, they still wouldn't have been able to get by them.

Armaan got out and walked over to talk to the pair. Heads bobbed, chests were touched. "Last leg of the journey. Figures," whispered Soap.

Armaan got back in the car after a moment, closing the door to keep out the light but persistent drizzle. He rifled through the glove box, then leaned down next to the door — the car's boot popped open. "What are you doing?" Soap hissed.

"We want this geezer out of the way? We help," said Armaan, getting out again. He soon returned to the stricken vehicle with a jack and some sort of repair kit. Smiles and reassuring nods ensued.

"Price… " Soap fumbled for the words. He didn't know when he'd have another chance. The lace screen less than a foot away and his own hushed voice reminded him of the confessional. "About what I asked you before, about what they did to you … bad timing, mate. I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

Though Price only hesitated for a second, it felt like ages. "I know, lad."

MacTavish worried his lip, his head bowed partly in gratitude to the man who'd arguably become the most important figure in his life, the one he'd followed almost to his death. Twice.

"While I shouldn't have said some of the things I did on the ship, about… " His voice trailing off, Price tried again. "Son, that wasn't what I wanted for you. I couldn't stand by and watch while… " The veil dipped slightly, the Old Man sighed. "It doesn't matter any more."

Something else he couldn't afford to think about. The one good thing about the burkha was that Price couldn't see his face right now.

Soap swallowed, his throat tight. For the umpteenth time, no thanks to his nonexistent peripheral vision from the fucking veil, he had to turn all the way 'round in order to look behind the car. Still nothing there. He prayed it would stay that way … and that his stomach would stop churning. Another charming side effect, one that Misha had failed to mention. Brilliant. The pain and exhaustion were bad enough. He'd been trying to mentally talk himself out of it, but it was no use — the nausea was undeniable now, and threatening to get the better of him.

His anger rose to meet it. They were so close. _If I could find the strength to kill Zakhaev and Shepherd, then I can bloody well keep myself together for a little while longer._

His mouth was starting to water. The point of no return. _Nooo … no no no no no. Not now — NOT now. Deep breaths, mate. _Apart from the more obvious and unpleasant reasons why not, it would be a nice little attention-getter.

Soap couldn't quite make out what Armaan was doing. Meanwhile the boy was looking over at them, tilting his head — probably couldn't see inside the car due to the light reflected on the windscreen. MacTavish shivered, pulling the burkha tighter around himself. "You all right?" Price asked.

"Aye, just shaking like a shitting dog," said Soap. "It's like being in some sort of withdrawal. Here's hoping that medic of his has some anti-sickness meds. I don't mean to be _that _kid on the school bus, but I'm telling you, if I don't get out of this car soon, I'm going to be one unpopular bloke."

The blue lace panel edged with embroidered flowers turned to him as the boy approached the car. "We're not going to that house."

Now _there_ was another tone Soap knew well. The pain, fatigue and nausea all faded in an instant surge of adrenaline. He opened his mouth to speak but didn't dare — the little bugger now stood just outside his window, staring at them.

* * *

**-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

It was like looking in the mirror: a bunch of hirsute well-armed white guys dressed as locals, convincingly enough to make Hagar glad he wasn't downwind. The ends of their woolen shawls rippled behind them in the wind like capes. Hagar and Atticus were sure to approach slowly, no sudden moves, their hands empty. More men stepped into view, looking down at them from the wall. Hagar spotted one wearing padded coveralls beneath the brown folds of his patou, cradling a familiar suppressed rifle, an Accuracy International AWS. Delta used these. So did the SAS.

Giving Hagar a look that said he'd noticed it too, Atticus kept his voice low. "Isn't this usually the point where they start throwing obscene gestures and calling us wankers?"

"Yeah man, I don't like this," said Hagar. "Not even a hello — talk about rude."

The turquoise-painted steel door to the outer wall clanged open. A fair-skinned man with an AK slung over his shoulder stood waiting for them. Wisps of reddish-blond hair stuck out past the olive drab shemagh wrapped around his head. His face was reddened by sun and wind, with the haggard look of someone who'd done a lot of flying recently. "You boys look a bit lost," he said. It sounded like 'lust' — he was from somewhere in Northern England, but that was the extent of Hagar's ear for such things.

"We're looking for someone," said Hagar.

The man shrugged. "I'd say you found 'em."

"Y'all look like you're expecting company," said Atticus, glancing at the men standing over them.

"We are."

Hagar's eyes settled on the thin strips of black plastic poking out of the Brit's tactical vest pocket. "Sounds cozy."

"It is. Too cozy already, I'm afraid." With an apologetic tilt of the head, a thin smile stretched his weatherbeaten, stubbly face, the steely gray eyes unchanging. "No more room at the inn."

* * *

**-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

The truck doors slammed shut, the Toyota Landcruiser rocking with the extra weight. "Well, that was awkward," said Hagar. The vehicle's four other occupants looked at him and Atticus expectantly.

"They're about to give them a proper British welcome," said Atticus. "The kind that comes with a cup of tea and a set of flex cuffs."

Kurt's head fell back against the headrest. "Shit."

Mike's face twisted with anger. "So you're telling me that's it? There goes Foghorn Leghorn's 'gold mine of intel'?"

Hagar shook his head. "Oracle says there's a bridge out, just beyond the last village. That left them one way up here. There's still a chance we can get 'em at the pass, it's our last shot." Mike gunned the engine and the truck peeled off in a spray of mud.

* * *

**-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

The lad looked about fourteen or so, the shirttails of his gray shalwar kameez hanging down below an unraveling brown cardigan, with the same off-brand trainers that seemed so popular here. 'Little' wasn't quite accurate; he was rangy, almost Price's height, with the gawkiness of a boy who'd hit his growth spurt. His tousled mop of thick wavy hair was a shade darker than his medium brown skin. He peered at them with green eyes — a dark mossy color, not like Armaan's — as if he could see through the lace masks of their burkhas. Beneath the drape of blue fabric, Soap's fingers curved around his AK's wooden grip, then relaxed, but only slightly. While he might be just a kid, the ugly truth was that underestimating a teenage boy had been many a soldier's undoing, especially in places like this. Yet another item on the long list of things one didn't talk about back home at the family barbecue.

Would he try to talk to them? Then what? And what did Price mean, they weren't going to the safe house? Their list of options was pretty damn short. Soap kept his eyes straight ahead, his teeth on edge. _Keep staring why don't you, you little knobhead. That's no way to treat a lady._

Looking disinterested, the boy turned around. They watched him walk back to the car until Soap could finally allow the terse whisper to escape. "What are you on about, Old Man?"

"I won't trade one prison for another."

Soap felt the blood drain from his face. He stared hard at the burkha next to him until Price spoke again.

"Once we're down the mountain, we'll be moving on. Minus one."

Soap nodded toward Armaan. "Does _he _know that?"

"He'll get over it."

"You really don't trust anyone, do you?"

"Almost. I trust _you_, I trust Nikolai. For the record, it's not Armaan I distrust so much as the ones he answers to."

"The ones _you _answered to." Soap nodded slowly. "So what happens to him, then?"

"Earlier you were ready to kill each other, now you're asking?"

The boy had taken a blue snapback from his pocket and had put it on. He and the older man with the white turban crowded around Armaan, watching his progress with the tire.

"He'll wind up in a shallow grave, mate."

"No he won't."

The boy was looking back at them again, leaning to the side to see around White Turban, who glanced over at them also.

"What makes you so su- " Soap froze. Dark blue baseball cap, New York Yankees logo. "Oi - isn't that the kid from the football game earlier?"

Judging by how Price's rifle came up, it certainly was.

The boy reared back, something in his hand, as Soap grabbed his AK. "Aw, fuck!" Armaan collapsed in a heap.

"Behind us!" yelled Price — the wing mirrors were full of armed Afghan men rushing toward them.

Price fired first, pinpoints of daylight punching through the door, hot steel casings pinging around them, the deafening burst dampening the sounds that followed. Soap threw himself down into the seat as an answering volley shattered the windows in a blizzard of sharp green confetti. He'd just squeezed his own trigger when something shiny flew over his shoulder into the front seat.

The hot white flash blew his hair back, pain exploding in his head - he felt the pressure wave blow more glass out of the windows. Blinded, coughing on acrid smoke, he reached out, groping for something to regain his balance. Several pairs of hands grabbed him, wrenching the AK from his grip. The fabric of the veil snapped tight over his face, flattening his broken nose, ratcheting itself around his neck. His hands flew up, heels scrabbling for purchase in the mud, tangled up in the burkha that they were now using to drag him from the car and slam him to the ground.

Several knees pressed into him, pulling the cloth tighter in the process. He thrashed his head around, grunting desperately, trying to breathe. Once they'd bound his hands behind his back and were done searching him, they stood him up and pulled the fabric up over his gasping face. He was immediately confronted by a stocky, dark-eyed Sean Connery lookalike with a salt-and-pepper beard and a gray pakol, who twisted up a handful of Soap's t-shirt and frowned. _"Russ?" _he demanded.

Staggering, blinking the stars from his eyes, MacTavish could barely hear anything, as if his head were stuffed with cotton wool. Blood trickled hot on his upper lip. In the distance, White Turban and the kid had tied up Armaan, who was starting to come around.

His vision clearing, a flurry of motion caught Soap's eye — Price was introducing himself in typical fashion. One of his three attackers flew backward as the Old Man kicked, punched and headbutted his way out of their grip, the blue veil fluttering to the ground behind him, the blood from his nose reddening his bared teeth. Smoke poured from the car, the interior set ablaze by the stun grenade.

Graybeard shook his blue-and-white striped fist in MacTavish's face, clearly getting pissed off. _"Russ?"_ Dim realization dawned at the muffled word: the _telnyashka_ made the man think he was Russian. Too late - the swift punch to his wounded abdomen folded him in half. "_Russ?" _

Quivering with agony, MacTavish retched.

The men holding him leapt back. Soap sank to his knees, unable to react to the sharp blow to his ear, since he was busy heaving his guts out.

_Wrong answer, I guess._

He'd hardly eaten anything in the past 12 hours. His body was convinced he'd just gone overboard at the Chinese buffet.

Every muscle seized in another painful contraction, but nothing was coming up any more. The ground was tilting, his vision darkening at the edges. They hauled him back to his feet, grunting with the effort it took to keep him upright — they were half his size, and getting angrier by the second. His legs felt like jelly; he couldn't help it. Not at first, anyway. _Fuck 'em, make 'em work for it._

Just past the disgusted face of Graybeard, Soap could see that Price had gotten the upper hand on his mates. While the other two waved their guns at him, he had the third in a headlock with an AK-74 stuck in his temple. Price was bright red, veins bulging in his forehead and neck, screaming at them – issuing an ultimatum. Soap's captors joined in. Everyone was screaming at each other, not a word of it understandable.

Everyone except Graybeard, an island of serenity in a sea of chaos. Turning his back on the hostage crisis, he held up a hand. At a word from him, his boys stopped shouting and half cut, half ripped the shirt off MacTavish.

The man looked pleased at what he saw once they'd torn the bandages away. With a backward glance at Price, he gave a nod and another brief order. They pushed MacTavish down onto his back, one man for each limb. Making damn sure that Price could see it, Graybeard drew his knife and squatted down next to Soap.

The bastard was about to perform some surgery of his own.

Snarling, MacTavish struggled. _Just let me get one arm free, the rest will follow — I'll tear you cunts to fucking pieces._

Under normal circumstances, he could have done just that. Except now he could barely move. He was too weak to fight them off. All the will in the world wasn't enough. He was theirs without question, to do with as they pleased.

Just like before. A vivid flashback of Shepherd plunging the knife into his belly.

Graybeard leaned in with his own blade. From the looks of things, it wasn't going to be that simple.

"Fuck!" Spittle flew from between MacTavish's teeth; he strained against them with all his might. "_Fuck_ you — fucking _bastards_ — " His bare skin twitched at the icy bite of the steel — the man burrowed the hooked tip under one of the taut loops of black thread holding the long incision closed.

A twist and a pull. _Pop._

He squirmed and bucked, to no effect.

_Pop._

The rage in Price's face was dissolving into horror, his mouth echoing Soap's own shouts, though it still didn't penetrate the white hum in MacTavish's head.

_NO…_

_Pop. _The edges of the skin sprang apart, shiny red beneath. The sound Soap felt himself making was something between a grunt and a howl.

Price's captive pulled away from him as he lowered his weapon, a hand outstretched as if to stop the grisly scene unfolding in front of him. Graybeard noted this, then calmly turned back to his task.

_SOAP…_

_Pop._ Blood welled up, trickling out of the reopened wound. But his captors weren't looking at MacTavish; they were watching Price as their fellows tore the rifle from his hands.

_STOP… _

Price's hands went up, in surrender and a plea. The defeated look in his eyes was more than Soap could bear. The man who'd rather die than give in was doing just that — because of him.

The swarm of hostile faces closed in, the recaptured AK-74 pointing at Price. It spun in the grip of the man it had been taken from, lashing out, quick and cruel.

Price sprawled face first into the mud with a brown splash.

Then the hood came down.


	21. Gone Native

_**LEGAL DISCLAIMER: **__MacTavish, Price, Nikolai and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty:Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games._

_**This story is an AU. Contains mature language and graphic violence.**_

_**A/N: **__It's been a while, I know. Lots of personal upheaval over the past six months, some of it positive, some not so much. I don't have the time to write that I had before, so this will be brief!_

_As ever, words fail me to express how much I appreciate everyone's reviews and support. _

_Betaed by my uber leopard print soul sister and scientista, __**SassySatsuma.**_

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* * *

By the time Delta reached it, the pillar of smoke had dwindled, the car a blackened, crackling husk. No one else was around, though there were signs of a scuffle. Recent tire tracks from another vehicle, footprints from at least five men — and they'd been busy. Plenty of 7.62 bullet casings lay scattered among drag marks trailing from the car. Two items of clothing lay rumpled and forgotten in the rough, unpaved road.

While Atticus examined the shredded remains of the first, a blue striped Russian undershirt, Hagar stooped down to retrieve the second. He sighed, looking up at his XO. "Looks like they had worse things than us waiting for them." Muddy water dripped from the boonie hat in his hands.

Like the shirt, it was stained with blood.

* * *

**-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

His time beneath the hood was a painful disorienting blur of stifling darkness, one long enough for MacTavish to recall the last time he'd worn one during SAS selection, along with every man he'd put one on.

His ears still rang, though not as badly. He'd heard nothing except the men in the room. No sounds of traffic, no calls to prayer.

The hood's removal felt like a rebirth. He sucked in a deep lungful of fresh air, shivering, his skin and hair damp with sweat. Once again, he was lying on his back at gunpoint. His eyes adjusting to the dimly lit room, he zeroed in on the sources of what he'd just heard: the jingle of the keys unlocking his cuffed hands in front of him, the crackle of paper-wrapped medical supplies. A blue-eyed Asian-looking bloke sat alongside him, pulling disposable gloves on. When he caught sight of the bed directly opposite his, Soap's stomach dropped. "Price?" he croaked, his mouth bone-dry.

Like him, Price was handcuffed and shackled, but it was unnecessary; he didn't stir or open his eyes. His hat was gone, his head wrapped in a wide bandage. Streaks of dried blood trailed down the back of his neck, his shirt collar stained a dark reddish-brown. MacTavish's breath caught until he saw the shallow rise of Price's chest.

"Price? Wake up."

Had he been unconscious since they were taken? That was a bad sign. What else had these twisted fuckers done to him? While it didn't appear that they'd beaten him any further, the condition he'd already been in made it somewhat difficult to tell. Numerous scabs, bruises and his split lip stood out in dark relief against his pale face. Curiously, they'd propped him up with some rolled up carpets and folded blankets.

Graybeard's boys closed in on Soap, blocking his view while they unlocked the cuffs, chaining one of his hands to the frame of the crude wooden bed, leaving the other free. The frame had a D-ring mounted to it for that very purpose, and MacTavish had a sinking feeling that it hadn't been installed especially for them. This lot weren't new at this, that much was obvious. There wasn't a hint of nerves among them. Their weapons and kit were in good order, no off-brand trainers here. A variety of unpleasant motives came to mind. In this region, kidnapping wasn't a crime so much as a business model, one as popular with so-called legitimate governments as it was in the underworld. Hell, organ trafficking wasn't unheard of.

He struggled to sit up, trying to see around them. The muzzle of an AK loomed in front of him, close enough to smell burnt gunpowder. Soap lay back down, and it retreated to a safer distance. His eyes darted back and forth between Price's motionless form and what their 'medic' was doing, with increasing concern at both. "Price? Oi - come on… "

Price cracked his eyes open, his voice a drowsy slur. "Soap?"

"About time, Old Man."

Price turned his head slowly, focusing on MacTavish with some difficulty. "You almost sound … worried."

"I am. I really think he might have damaged his rifle butt."

Price chuckled weakly. "A distinct … possibility." He coughed and grimaced, wrinkling the puffy flesh around his blackened eye, now a mottled palette of purplish-green, brown and yellow.

"You look like a modern artwork, mate."

"Speak … for yourself… "

MacTavish took a quick inventory. They were in a mud hut, the windows shuttered, lit with paraffin lamps. A striped woolen blanket hung in a doorway leading to another room. This one was stacked with wooden munitions crates, plastic storage boxes of various sizes; field rations, dried and tinned food. There was plenty of water, in big clear plastic jugs and individual bottles, bundled and shrink wrapped. Several other beds of the same type were scattered about: four wooden spindles around a simple frame woven with rope to suspend a thin mattress. He recognized their remaining possessions piled in the corner. All of the Magnificent Seven were still on scene, Price's former hostage still looking rather pissed off. He was one of the three surrounding Price's bed.

The medic leaned over his bare torso, pulling off a bloodstained bandage that had been hastily applied at some point, examining his wounds. They looked all right except for the oozing red gap left by the missing sutures.

The blanket swept aside, Graybeard striding into the room to observe the goings-on. He lifted his bushy dark eyebrows with a shake of his head and some bemused-sounding Pashto.

The medic nodded with a huff, seeming to agree.

What would this hostile stranger, his level of medical expertise unknown, do next? Soap couldn't control his trembling, or his breathing. He hated the thought that these wankers would take credit for it. _Bloody hell, I never should have let Misha give me that shite._

The appearance of the vial and syringe didn't help matters.

The big man squatted down next to him, regarding him in oppressive silence. The wide fluted edges of his rolled up gray pakol hat reminded MacTavish of a piecrust. His hair and beard were more salt than pepper, his rough forehead etched with crooked lines from decades of bright sun and hardship. The deep creases framing his face and the droop of his jowls gave him a sad, careworn look, but his sharp gaze told you otherwise. Broad shoulders strained the fabric of his green Russian fatigue jacket, the maroon and white striped silk scarf coiled around his neck seeming an indulgence against his otherwise plain attire. When he finally spoke again, giving him an exasperated look, Soap almost swore in surprise.

"Are you going to let him sew that back up or not?"

MacTavish gave a terse nod, watching the medic take aim with the long thin needle. The man's gravelly accent, as unexpected as his English, made Soap's heart sink even further. _Fuck me. Fuck us both. _

"You're Russian," said Soap, wincing at the pinch and burn of the local anesthetic. If they were who he thought they were, then why bother with any of this?

But Grach had patched up Price, hadn't he?

"_Haoh —" _Graybeard caught himself. _ "_Yes_, _I was. You were in a hurry, to be running around like this. Too soon for your own good. But good for us. Big man like you," He nodded at the medic. "My son says they took you down as easily as a child."

MacTavish's face burned, the truth of it a far greater agony than the cramped, throbbing misery in his belly. He wasn't sure if Price was still dazed or merely impassive, but either way, he wouldn't meet his eyes. Soap wished he would. If nothing else, to deliver the withering stare he deserved. With only a few more miles between them and Kamarov's safe house, they'd been captured. His fault. He'd slowed them down, made them vulnerable.

That wasn't all. "The other man that was with us, where is he?"

Ignoring the question, the Russian studied him for a moment, frowning at MacTavish's sweaty, shaky appearance. "What's wrong with you?" He spoke to one of the Afghans, who began rooting through their bags. Behind his back, Soap saw Price's lips form the word _was _before the thrown pill vial rattled into the man's hand.

Graybeard pulled out a pair of reading glasses, squinting at the label. "He is no longer your concern, or mine." He looked over his glasses at Soap, rather like a disapproving grandfather. "When was the last time you took one of these?"

"This morning."

"Then it's time. Here," he handed MacTavish a pill while the medic set to work on closing Soap's wound. He seemed to know what he was doing. His _son_? They looked nothing alike.

"What do you mean, not my concern?" Soap asked, watching one of his men pour a cup of water. Thank fuck. The dingy white plastic cup might as well have been a crystal goblet of fine wine.

The Russian took the cup, sloshing it around a little. "Thirsty, are you?" He took a noisy drink. "Yes, very thirsty." He pulled it away when MacTavish reached for it. "So put that pill in your mouth. Now."

Struggling to keep his temper in check, MacTavish obeyed. The water was warm and tasted like the plastic jug — it was delicious. He swallowed hard. The thick antibiotic pills were difficult to get down under normal circumstances, without thinking about Armaan's fate. Christ, he hoped he was wrong about that. London upbringing or not, many Afghan militants took a dim view of blokes like Armaan who worked with Western forces, and often made gruesome examples of those who did.

The old git wouldn't refill the cup until he took one of the painkillers. "You were ready to gut me on the road, now you're playing nursemaid?" Soap asked.

Graybeard shrugged, putting his reading glasses back into his pocket. "I had a point to make, I made it," he said. He lifted his chin as his medic's hands twirled and pulled the thread taut. "It's only the top layer, looks worse than it is. And don't think that I won't still gut you, or take a finger as proof, except you're worth more with all your parts still intact."

"Right, so this is — "

"Business. There's more than one interested party."

Price was now fully alert, hanging on every word, breathing a little harder than before.

"Interested in what? New talent for their latest Internet snuff film?" Those fucking cunts. Armaan might have been every bit the pain in the arse that he promised, but he didn't deserve to have his head sawn off on YouTube. "Is that what you did with him?"

"I told you… " Graybeard knelt back down next to MacTavish's bed. His voice softened. Calm, matter-of-fact. " …now you're testing my patience." The knife came out to rest below Soap's unscarred right eye.

* * *

**-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

With a screech of brakes, they were pulling him out of the vehicle and onto his feet, steering him along in blind steps. Chatting and joking to one another, when they weren't jeering at him. Except for that and the idling engine, Armaan couldn't hear anything else. Only wind.

They'd made it clear they weren't interested in a damned thing he had to say. He was past fear; he was numb, focused on one final task: to at least die like a man.

Although with this lot, he might yet well go out like a woman.

On your knees, a voice behind him ordered in Pashto. The kick from behind came before he could comply. A shove put him down onto his face.

_Here it comes. _Armaan coiled like a spring. He didn't stand a chance, but he didn't want to die badly.

Amid laughter, they tugged at his bound wrists, which suddenly came apart. The blindfold yanked his head back and came off. Doors slammed; gravel stung him as the Hilux sped away.

He stood up slowly, in disbelief. The relief came next, boiling out of him in panting breaths and trembling legs.

He mastered himself and looked around. Not a soul, a house, or a wisp of smoke in sight. Just open sky, rolling dun-colored hills, and a setting sun.

He started walking.

* * *

**-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

The razor-sharp blade sat on the crest of MacTavish's cheekbone, ready to break the skin if he so much as twitched, the tip so close to his naked eye that he didn't dare blink.

"I could make them match, though I can't promise you'd ever be able to use it again," said Graybeard. "Or… " He flicked his gaze in Price's direction. "I could make _his _match instead. I don't think it would affect my fee either way."

Soap pursed his lips, forcing himself to look up from the blurry steel. "All right, all right. I'm sorry. I'm — "

The staccato bursts of sharp consonants and grinding R's bordered on contempt: "O positive. Two-zero-seven-three-five-two-one. John MacTavish. _British_ Army. Roman Catholic."

A photographic memory. Having just had his dog tag's contents recited to him in order, MacTavish chose his next words with care. "What can I call you?"

Sheathing his knife, the Russian stood, sounding disinterested already. "They call me Agha Vadim," he said as he disappeared into the next room, the knife's sensation lingering on MacTavish's cheek.

All finished, the medic applied a clean dressing and helped him into a fresh linen tunic, a long buff-colored Afghan _salwar. _Rifles, bearing witness at the low ready, were never far away. After locking him back up in his handcuffs, the young man left, following his father. His mates remained where they were, seated but otherwise on guard.

This was as close to alone as he and Price were going to get. "What do you think, ex-Red Army? He's the right age for it. A deserter, maybe?" MacTavish asked in a low voice.

Price stared at the ceiling. "Or a captive. The Soviets didn't discriminate. Remember, in those days the thing to do was defect to the West. Former POWs were viewed with suspicion, accused of being deserters. Didn't make for much of a homecoming."

"Must have made it easier for the Inner Circle to gain a foothold here, men like this … Agha." MacTavish clamped his teeth together, avoiding the name they both dreaded. They'd be hearing it soon enough, when they were all together at last.

'_Til death do us part._

"Agha's not his first name," said Price, his flat tone and expression indicating he thought the same thing.

"How do you know?"

"It means 'mister'. In other words, we're to address him as 'sir'."

A sharp word in Pashto barked out at them from the shadows, no translation needed. It was the same prick who had struck him with the rifle butt.

Price ignored him. "Makarov's an 'interested party' for sure, if not this bastard's handler."

MacTavish let his head fall back. It was even worse hearing the Old Man say it. His eyes flew open to the sound of quick footsteps that put the wiry bearded fighter between them. The chains snapped taut when he tried to sit up, as the Afghan slapped Price stoutly across the face.

Price grunted and sputtered as the man turned to lean over MacTavish, wagging a finger. Their conversation was over.

* * *

**-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

_The greatest gift of leadership is the trust you earn, from those who would follow you into Hell if you asked them. The greatest curse is when you wind up leading them there._

_So where are we now?_

Soap was asleep, finally. Price had watched his eyes glaze over, watched him fight it until Price had given him a small nod, to interpret as he saw fit. Permission. Forgiveness, if that's what he needed. Both were granted. Even before the words had left his mouth, the lad had known damn well that Price would never leave him behind.

You never left anyone behind. Though Soap would be better off now if he'd had. Handcuffed to a more comfortable bed, at least.

Price envied him this moment of peace and forgetfulness, even if it _was_ chemically induced. He needed to gather what strength he had left — they both did — for what was to come.

Despite all their efforts, Shepherd's lie had already taken on a life of its own. As they'd heard on the radio broadcast, the cover-ups had started. Now, after everything they'd been through, it was back to square one. His rescue, their going on the run, Soap barely surviving their confrontation with Shepherd … and after that, evading both murderous local paramilitaries and the vengeful Americans. For all the good it had done them, it was as if Price had never escaped the fortress at Petropavlosk. He'd thought nothing could be worse than being back in the hands of Makarov, but he was wrong.

Now Soap would suffer alongside him.

_I won't allow it. I can't._

He knew that whatever MacTavish had left in him, he would give. Would it be enough? Though he'd stopped shivering, Soap still looked ill. He didn't belong outside a hospital, much less being dragged halfway across Afghanistan. Price wasn't doing much better. He could barely lift his head without feeling dizzy. Squaring off against eight healthy opponents was out of the question.

Plan B, then. It would be during the handoff, or never.

He could hear a familiar voice in his head, the one he always heard in the rare moments when he questioned himself. MacMillian.

_How far are you willing to go, John? _

He kept some of their limited options buried deeply enough that he didn't entertain them, not yet.

He strained all of his senses to the limit, gathering information. About half of their captors were snoring, curled up on the wooden beds, while the others kept watch. The glasses of hot green tea in their hands said they weren't going to be drowsy anytime soon. As _pashtunwali _dictated, they'd offered him some to their guest — which he was, prisoner or not. Recalling what happened the last time, Price had refused, offending them. He didn't give a monkey's.

Vadim stepped back inside the room, clapping another blue-eyed dark haired Afghan on the shoulder, speaking softly to him. The man responded by bedding down for the night.

Ignoring Price, the Russian sat down next to a paraffin lamp. He put on his reading glasses and pulled a paperback book from his pocket. When he opened it, a photograph fluttered down to the floor next to Price's bed. The dark-haired, pale-eyed Afghan girl looked 18 at the most. The picture was old, faded. Vadim rose and snatched it up, looking at it for a moment before pressing it back between the pages.

"Your woman?" Price asked.

With an affirmative grunt, Vadim settled back down again with the book, opening it more carefully this time. _**Пикник на обочине**_— whatever that was. The dog-eared cover suggested some sort of science fiction or fantasy novel.

"Was that before or after you went native?"

Vadim didn't look up. He turned a page.

"Or was she the turning point, when you realized you couldn't go home anymore, because it wasn't your home any longer?"

"Are you speaking from experience?" Vadim rumbled, looking over the edge of his glasses before returning his attention to his book.

"Where is she now?"

The words rode out on a heavy sigh. "Just … stop." The Russian shook his head at Price, as if he'd heard it all before. "It doesn't become you."

He returned to his book, while Price returned to his thoughts, turning his head slowly to avoid any dizzy spells. He could still taste blood from when he'd dribbled it on himself; that twat had dealt him a fair backhand. He ran his tongue around his mouth, taking stock of the damage so far. He wanted to be able to remember what having his teeth felt like.

The only silver lining of it was, in the state they were in, neither of them would last long.

Makarov thought Price had been the one to kill his mentor. What would he do to Soap when he found out that it was, in fact, him that had put down Zakhaev?

Closing his eyes for a moment, Price turned back to Vadim. Not that it would do any good.

"Look, I'm the one you want."

Not the slightest flicker of interest. "Are you?"

"Just leave him out of it, all right? I'm the one that did it."

A turn of the page. "Did what?"

"I'm the bastard that slotted him."

Vadim couldn't have sounded more bored if he tried. "Who?"

"Your esteemed leader, for fuck's sake!" That earned Price a raised eyebrow over the edge of the book. "Imran Zakhaev. The genocidal Ultranationist toerag with a bloody airport named after him and pigeons shitting on his statue in Red Square. Because of _me_, and let me tell you something, mate. No matter what happens, no matter what you do to me, I'll die a happy man knowing I put him in the ground. Makarov can – "

The book flipped down into Vadim's lap. He uncrossed his leg, his boot hitting the ground with a _thump. _His face morphed into an expression of utter disgust, the dark eyes drilling into Price, who braced himself.

"_Makarov_? You think this is about him?" Vadim scoffed. "_Shazzuna. _He and his men are long gone. He was smart to leave this country, though if he returns again, he might not."

Price felt like the wind had just been knocked out of him, and the Russian hadn't lifted a finger.

"Now let me tell _you _something … _Price._ We know exactly who you are, what you've done, and thanks to your friend's shirt, who you've been keeping company with. We know who's after you, and what it's worth to them." He shook his head. "You have nothing left to bargain with. There aren't any gold coins in your belt this time. So shut up and go to sleep, before I have Bilal knock you out again."

Price couldn't argue with those facts, and Mr. Rifle Butt looked more than happy to oblige. Utterly exhausted, he sagged back into the pile of dirty blankets, thankful for their propping him up. It relieved some of the pressure in his pounding head, made it easier to breathe against the painful grind of his broken ribs. He squirmed, trying to avoid the tender goose egg over the base of his skull; old Bilal had really given him the good news. His eyes rolled closed of their own volition, unable to see straight anymore. Once the captive surroundings faded away, his relief over Makarov dueled with dread of the possibilities, until he eventually fell into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

**-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

Tied up, hooded again, bumping around in the back of some truck in the pre-dawn hours. Par for the course, really. There was far too much overhead surveillance to keep them in one place for long, and with the Interpol Red Notice on them, their captors weren't taking any chances. No shortage of punters out there looking. The NDA, the Yanks, his own government…

_So who's the lucky winner then, eh?_ Price wondered. _Who's got my sodding hat?_

…_and who gets the grand prize?_

He lurched back and forth into the men beside him, who grunted and shoved him away. The road was brutally rough, but speed was the main thing they were interested in. A few times, his head almost hit the truck's roof. Between the insults to his ribs and his head, Price had trouble keeping silent.

When they ground to a halt and the loud blaring Afghan music stopped, Price heard Soap moaning in pain as they manhandled him out of the second vehicle. A few of those escaped him as well. It was a way of letting him know they were still together. At this point, it wasn't much of an act.

They were marched into some building, down a few steps to cool musty dampness. Livestock, paraffin and machine oil smells. Forced down into chairs, hands tied behind them.

Then came the waiting.

The hoods stayed on. This wasn't just a move to another safe house. Was this to be the actual handoff? A proof-of-life video shoot?

Summary execution?

He thought of the poor bastards they'd liberated on the oil rig, and all the others like them over the years. The uncertainty was the worst part. Bound, blind, voiceless, left with nothing but time to wonder if they'd live or die.

Now certainty, that's what set you free.

The same voices chatting, cigarette smoke. A drink of water. More waiting. New discomforts. The flexcuffs cutting into his wrists, his arse going numb. The ache in his shoulders worsening, a parting gift from his stay with the Ultranationalists.

He had to put it out of his mind, all of it. _Almost showtime._ _Just don't hold out for an encore._

Then it occurred to him: for someone who'd adapted to this culture and spoke Pashto as a primary language, Vadim's English was excellent.

Price startled at the door opening, several pairs of boots stomping down the steps, new voices jabbering away in Pashto.

"Vadim!" Sounds of backslaps and handshakes. "_Asalaam alaikum_." The distinctly American drawl made him groan.

_Of course._

The man behind him wrenched Price's head back, the hood's rough fabric scraping up over his face just before a camera's flash blinded him. "Cheese!" sang one of the Afghans. A low chuckle emanated from above Price, threatening to become a full-on belly laugh. The wide grin was the first thing to materialize from the sea of red spots, like Carroll's Cheshire Cat.

Price blinked rapidly, bringing the wavy gray hair and the rest of the sunburned boyish face into view.

Buzz smirked down at them. "Well fuck me running. Ain't this just a kick in the ass."

* * *

**-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

_**Asalaam alaikum**_[Arabic]_– _"Peace be upon you."

**Пикник на обочине (**_**Piknik na obochine**_**)– **_Roadside Picnic, _a science fiction novel by Arkady and Boris Strugatsky. Written in 1971 and heavily censored by the Soviets at the time. The basis for the S.T.A.L.K.E.R. video game series, among other things.

_**Shazzuna**_[Pashto] – 'women'.


	22. The Right Horse

_**LEGAL DISCLAIMER: **__MacTavish, Price, Nikolai and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty:Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games._

_**This story is an AU. Contains mature language.**_

_**A/N: **__Finishing this is going to be tough. __Huge thanks to everyone who's still following and reviewing – I need every bit of your support to help keep me going. A flying tackle of love to my bestest beta, **SassySatsuma. **It's been way too long._

* * *

**x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

**urgentorange-dot-tumblr-dot-com**

**x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

* * *

Price sagged in his chair, not knowing whether to be relieved, alarmed or merely disgusted. _Should've bloody well known._

"Who the … the _fuck_ — " Soap looked more pissed off than anything. "Price, is this - ?"

Price nodded, wincing at the reminder of why he shouldn't. His pounding head felt like it was about to roll off his shoulders.

"Mmm, mmm, mmm," Buzz shook his head, tut-tutting at them. "As popular as ever, I see."

"Just cut us loose, you twat," said Soap.

"And just as charming." Buzz unfolded his knife, admiring the view. Such moments weren't meant to go unsavored, any of the Regiment or 141 lads would have done the same. For a second, things felt almost normal. "How're ya doing, MacTavish?" While Rev went for Soap's, Buzz set to work on Price's flex cuffs. "To think that just last week you nearly bought the farm. Now you're out seeing the sights, making new friends... "

"Ones on your payroll, it seems," said Price.

"In a manner of speaking. Lucky for you."

"You call that lucky?" MacTavish jerked his head toward the door. The Afghans had just left.

"Oh, Vadim. Yeah, he's a little _different_, I'll give you that. Being left for dead by your teammates and saved by your enemies can do that to a guy. But hey, he zipped you back up didn't he?" Rubbing his wrists, Soap scowled up at him. "Guess that means you've met the kids. Well, they're not technically his - long story." After some tugging and a sharp snap of cut plastic, Buzz stood with a grunt. "We were the highest bidder. Shows we care," he gave them a lopsided grin. "Needless to say, around here, running into the wrong people could be seriously problematic."

"And you lot are the right ones?" Price hissed at the protest from his past shoulder injury as he brought up his newly-freed hands. He carefully touched the back of his head, trying to gauge how much of the lump was from the bandage and how much of it was swelling.

Eyeing the collection of old and new ligature marks on Price's wrists, Buzz's smirk fell away. "More than you know." He looked over at Rev. "Why don't you go pay the man, we'll just gonna sit here and talk for a while."

Rev lifted the frayed red baseball cap from his head to run a hand through his stringy blond hair, assessing the situation before pulling the cap back down backward again. The laughing skull on the front of it grinned at them as the door opened and closed, leaving the three of them alone.

A fluttering overhead caught Price's attention. Birds in the rafters were making their own hasty exit through a hole in the roof, fleeing into the dawn. This wasn't another mud hut. They were sat on folding metal chairs, surrounded by crumbling brick marked with the Cyrillic graffiti of young soldiers who'd never imagined these lewd caricatures would be their final contribution to the world. The room was large enough to accommodate a vehicle or two, though one end had been partially caved in. Automotive and other rubbish lay about, mixing into the scattered bricks and broken timber that framed patches of sky. Weeds were sprouting up in corners, tree roots pushing their way through the walls. Part of some old Soviet outpost, its once modern, alien architecture now being slowly consumed by the timeless surroundings, like a transplanted organ that had been rejected.

Buzz shrugged the duffel bag off his shoulder. Lowering its sagging weight to the floor, he reached inside. The bottles of water he handed them weren't piss-warm, at least. Taking one for himself and settling down on a pile of dull green Russian ammo crates, long since plundered of their contents, he sighed. "I don't think you need me to tell you just how much trouble you boys are in."

Gulping the cool water, Price came up for air. "So we've heard."

"In case you haven't figured it out by now, all wouldn't have been peaches and cream if you'd actually made it to Kamarov's safe house."

No, it wouldn't have. Price never had the chance to explain Armaan's subtle warnings or his own suspicions — it had all happened too quickly. Now he felt the quiet demand of Soap's gaze behind him.

"We're listening," said MacTavish.

"MI6 had a team there to scoop you up all right, except the orders changed midstream, from exfil to capture." Buzz held up a hand as Soap's face contorted with anger. "But don't hold that against Armaan. His intentions _were_ true at first, thought he could spirit you away while the NDA still had our pants down." He took a long drink, ending in a satisfied swallow. "Boy owes me one - I got him off the hook."

"Is that a new term for dead?" Soap asked.

"MacTavish, didn't you mother ever tell you that if you kept making that face, it would freeze that way?" A lift of eyebrows. "Too late, I guess. Armaan is very much alive. Rather footsore and pissed off by now, I expect. I have been assured they didn't mess up his pretty face too much." He shrugged at Price, his brief hint of an uncomfortable smile some form of half-arsed apology. "It's an ugly business sometimes."

"Mmm," Price was unmoved. "Isn't it just."

"I suppose you're wondering how we found you in the first place. It's just one of things, you know. We happened to be … around_. _Doing some work with our mutual friends." He waved a hand back and forth. "A little of this, a little of that. Well, when a _nuke_ goes off, you can bet your ass there'll be a briefing. A major one. We were told to report to the Station Chief in person, wheels up within the hour. Every spy agency on the planet had a packed conference room _that_ day."

Buzz stared at them both for a moment, his uncharacteristic seriousness disquieting. "As soon as all eyes were on him, your CO was quick to throw you two under the bus."

"We'll do our best to look surprised," said Price.

"Yet he kept you both in play."

"Funny how that is," said Soap.

Daylight pierced the gloom with Rev's return. He took a seat on a steel worktable welded together from scrap, sheer weight explaining its presence in a room that had been otherwise picked clean of anything useful. He fished out a pack of cigarettes from his vest. With a _flick_, a puff of smoke rolled forth, prompting Buzz to continue. "We'd just come out of the briefing, went to grab some chow before heading back to Afghanistan. We hadn't even left the wire yet when we got RUMINT of _another_ incident involving Shepherd's Task Force 141, this time near the Georgio-Russian border. Brits were being tight-lipped about it for some reason. Then, as if life weren't interesting enough, we were on the way back when we had to divert. An American helo had just fallen out of the sky, not far from a base of his.

"An asset of ours called it in, the smoke could be seen for miles. Bodies everywhere. It was Shepherd's _other_ guys, Shadow Company. Not everyone was dead though, one of 'em was still hanging on. Former frogman by the name of Elias. Knew he didn't have long, and told us not to try bullshitting him about it either. Had a few things he wanted to get off his chest. Said he'd fucked up, but that he didn't want to to be his last act. That's when we found out why the boys at Vauxhall Cross hadn't been quite so forthcoming.

"He told us about what happened up in the mountains, how the mission went pear shaped. How Shepherd had suddenly declared y'all hostile, but ordered his team to continue with the extraction anyway, and set down in one very hot LZ to pick up the 141's two surviving shooters."

Buzz paused, taking in their stony expressions. "The good General went down the ramp to greet them. Only one was still on his feet, the other was in a bad way — his buddy had just dragged him out of the kill zone. But that wasn't Shepherd's biggest concern. He wanted to be sure they'd met their objective, which they had. As soon as they handed over the goods, he shot 'em both point blank. Ordered Elias and the others to burn the bodies," he said, showing no pleasure at the reaction that Soap and Price were unable to contain.

"Then when you two showed up at Hotel Bravo, he called in an airstrike on his own men. Told them their 'service would be honored'. If that's not a guy with a few skeletons in his closet, I don't know what is."

More cigarette smoke unfurled before Rev broke the heavy silence. "By this point, Elias was having trouble speaking. Said something about drowning, how he thought they were dead. That's all we could get out of him before the medics pushed us out of the way."

"There was an overturned Zodiac at the river's edge, with a couple sets of prints coming _from _the river," said Buzz. "They led to the body of Shepherd himself — with a knife in his eye, no less. I thought, someone _does_ have a flair for the dramatic," he looked back and forth between them. "But who?

"Judging by the large red stain on the sand, someone rather short on time, " said Rev. "The answer was either back at Kamarov's base or beneath the nearest flock of buzzards. Only ones we saw were the ones overhead. So back to the bunker we went, and sure enough, Misha had himself two new patients. Their surgeon's pretty good." He glanced at MacTavish. "You're living proof of that."

"That wasn't the only knife found at the scene. "_Per Mare Per Terram – _neither of you were in the Royal Marines, I'm sure there's an interesting story there." Buzz reached into the duffel beside him. "But a local found something even more interesting in the river. One phone call later… " He held up a plastic bag in Price's direction. "I believe this is yours." He turned the bag, examining the 1911 within, steel glinting through worn black. "Poor old Colt. Rode hard and put away wet," he chuckled, shaking his head at Price. "Kinda like you these days."

"You weren't planning on coming back, were you? When you went after him?" Rev's pale eyebrows arched at calculating angles. He inhaled, turning his head to blow his smoke in the other direction. "We'd been watching him for a while, you know. Kamarov isn't the only reason we're out here, let's just put it that way."

"Do tell," said Price.

"Long before he started doing his Colonel Kurtz thing out in the desert with his private army of rejects, things didn't smell quite right with Shepherd."

Price thought Soap might fall off his chair. "_Rejects_, is it?" MacTavish jabbed a finger at the CIA men. "Fought any of 'em lately? These were no amateurs, mate. Word was that he paid well, lured some of the best away from their units."

"Off the books of the regular military. Disposable, deniable, with no press waiting back home for a flag-draped casket that would never come," said Price.

"I don't know about the _best_," said Buzz. "Salary was competitive, sure. But the main qualification for Shadow Company, besides being a top tier door kicker, was that other teams didn't want your sorry ass anymore. That was at least true of the ones he kept closest to him, like Elias."

"The old standby," said Price. "Difficult enough, once you've run with the lions, to be left standing amongst the lambs. But if it's not by choice _…_ word gets around, and why. No decent outfit will take you on if they've heard you're a muppet. So the blokes with darker secrets than that - something for Shepherd to hold over their heads? Perfect for the dirtier jobs."

"Like topping British soldiers," said MacTavish.

"I'd like to say Elias is our witness, but he didn't last the flight back to Bagram," said Buzz. "However, there's one more thing we found in the wreckage." The next plastic bag held a oblong white plastic box with a thick antenna, somewhat resembling a wireless network access point. Price's chest tightened. Scorched and partially melted, it was the last thing he expected to see.

It was the DSM.

* * *

**-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

They were barely out of sight of the CIA and their bearded special operations men, a good deal richer than they'd been a mere 15 minutes ago. Normally, they'd take their money, disappear for a while, and resurface later for a new job. Just like he'd taught them. This time was different. He'd known as soon as he'd seen the man with the punk rock hair, his British Paratrooper's _Utrinque Paratus _tattoo an odd mismatch with the Russian _telynashka_ he wore. So the rumors _were_ true.

Vadim understood his adopted son's concern. Though it suited him as the team's medic, Mirwais had always been the worrier of the two, needing occasional reassurance. Knowing this, his brother Marjan had stayed back with the others, waiting patiently by the trucks.

Standing near the mountainside's edge, they looked over the nearly endless panorama spread out before them, the distant peaks tall gray battlements of a kingdom ruled by no one. He'd used this place before. The rock curving at their backs would interfere with attempts at surveillance, which he always had to assume were there. After removing the SIM card and snapping it in half, Vadim flung the phone as hard as he could into the expanse.

"They want to avoid exposing themselves to the Americans, we want to make money. It's simple. We know what routes they must take. There's a window of opportunity here, but it is narrow."

"They won't go for it," said Mirwais.

Vadim's face warmed with a calm smile. "Of course they will."

* * *

**-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

"This was it, wasn't it? The objective. Was this what the 141 was sent to retrieve from Makarov's place in the mountains?" asked Buzz.

The DSM. Price had thought it gone forever, especially after Shepherd had gotten hold of it. Now here it was, dangling from the hand of the CIA.

_Not sure it's much of an improvement, mind._

"What Shepherd was willing to kill his own for?"

Rev's question was soft-spoken, respectful. "What Riley and Sanderson died for?"

MacTavish's answer was nearly inaudible. "Aye."

"So they'd tell no tales, while he spun a few of his own," said Rev. "What if we told you we don't buy the whole Shepherd legend, or the story about you two — and that we're not the only ones?" The cigarette smoke coiled pale in the dark, brown in the sharpening beams of sunlight spilling down from the holes in the roof. "Those are some pretty serious accusations." Rev took another drag. "I'm guessing he tried to hurry up and have you killed before anyone could prove otherwise."

"What was it that he was so desperate to hide? Was it about the nuke? A little late for that, I'd say. So what's bigger than the 400 kiloton elephant in the room?" Buzz asked. "Could it have something to do with the Russian airport attack? It was, after all, his man that got caught."

"Could have done." Price gave them the thoughtful nod they were expecting. _One good lie and a river of blood. _These Yanks had done their homework. Now, in this plastic grip seal bag, they held the potential to rewrite Shepherd's version of history, the one he and Soap had fought so hard to stop in the first place.

"It's damaged, sure, but I've seen what our analysts can do, with devices in far worse shape."

"In the meantime, we can help you keep your heads down, give you some breathing room so you can get yourselves squared away," said Rev.

"The data recovered from this could be the key to showing Shepherd – and the two of you – in a whole new light," said Buzz.

Soap stared at the floor, worrying his lip. "The key to the truth, you mean."

_The trouble with truth is, it's only as good as the willingness to accept it._ "And what if it doesn't?" Price asked.

"You want to throw yourselves on Her Majesty's mercy instead?" Rev asked. "They were about to place you under arrest, remember? Whitehall's hip deep in this — they _have _to react. They'll be quick to make an example out of you."

"We still have a place or two out in this neck of the woods, where you can take it easy for a few days," said Buzz. "You sure look like you could use it."

Price stood up carefully; he didn't want to give these two any more of a show. It took some doing, between the dizziness and his aching body protesting every inch of the way. Soap remained seated. A look at him and it wasn't hard to work out why.

"Really, man. Your faces are all over the Internet." Buzz cocked his head in a weary plea for reason. "Where are you going to go?"

Armaan's words were the first thing that sprung to Price's mind. "We still have friends in low places."

"Like Kamarov? They're packing their shit and getting out of Dodge as we speak, with US military assistance, which I take it you'd both like to avoid at the moment. I'd recommend it, actually." Rev flicked his cigarette ash in a shower of sparks.

Soap failed to stifle a cough, his attempt at stoicism falling flat — with his flexing jaw and heaving shoulders, he wasn't fooling anyone. Buzz stopped what he was doing. "Son, you look like you've had about enough for one day."

"I'm fine." Soap didn't sound too convinced of that himself.

"How silly of us not to notice." Buzz finished zipping everything back in the bag and stood, offering a hand, which Soap didn't take. Giving up, he sighed. "C'mon, let's get you out of here, get you both looked at. After you get some rest, we can talk some more."

"Cheers, lads, but it's time we were on our way," said Price.

Rev gave him a disapproving frown. "The Russians did a good job of patching him up, but there's only so much they can do out here. What if they missed something, or God forbid, something's gone wrong?"

The thought was almost as disturbing as Soap's lack of reaction to being talked about like he wasn't there.

Buzz looked Price up and down. "How much more do you think _you_ can take? You were already warned that your next injury could be your last. That was a couple injuries ago."

Out of the corner of his eye, Price recognized the subtle shift in Soap's posture, and the loyalty behind it. To anyone else, he appeared resolute. But Price had known him long enough, could read him better than his own mum could — much to the lad's dismay. Though he'd said nothing, and wouldn't, Soap was reaching the end of his tether. Weakened and exhausted from his ordeal, he'd wanted to accept their offer. Of comfort, safety. Of a way out.

"No, you look at him, Price," said Rev. "Take a good look. Your buddy's a hot mess and so are you. How much longer do you think you can keep this up?"

Buzz leaned back against the crates. "Look, nobody said it would be quick, and no one's saying it's gonna be easy." He glanced up at the brightening sky. "Life is strange sometimes. To think the 141 was formed to go after Makarov, public enemy number one. Now _you're_ some of the most wanted men on Earth. Come with us. Help us get to the truth about Shepherd, so we can help _you_. We might be the only ones who can."

"And what if our answer is no?"

With a huff of disbelief that said he thought Price was barking mad, Buzz pinched the bridge of his nose, his face crumpling while he scrubbed a hand over his face. "You know… " He picked his head up, keen blue eyes zeroing in on Price. "Collateral damage is an ugly thing." He nodded at Soap. "Would you take him down with you?"

What _weren't_ they saying?

"You did what you felt you had to do. Trust me, we get it. But others?" He shook his head slowly. "Not so much."

"You're awfully quiet, MacTavish," said Rev. "_You've_ got family back home, don't you?"

The question hung in the air, the point made.

"Your parents, your sister, Sara … you can just imagine what they're going through."

Price kept his eyes straight ahead, not taking the bait, knowing Soap would do the same.

"The way we see it, we're some of the best friends you've got right now," said Buzz.

The saddest cut of all was, he might actually be right about that one. Except for one very inconvenient fact: these spooks still had someone else to answer to.

"I don't think so." Price hoped that he was somehow wrong about this, that Soap would have a chance to confront him later – that he wouldn't learn first hand the reason for his refusal.

Only one way to find out.

Buzz sighed again. "Well… "

When Price opened the door, he was greeted by an HK416 flash hider, Oakley sunglasses and an American accent. All belonged to one of the Delta lads, the big red-faced blond bastard — Mike.

"Going somewhere, shitbird?"

Lifting his hands in the air, Price turned stiffly back to Buzz, who looked truly apologetic. "For what's it worth, I _am_ sorry about all this. Had to try the carrot before the stick. You did what you had to do … and now we must."

Rev stubbed out his cigarette with a single twist.

"It's not a request."

* * *

**-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

**Frogman** – US military slang for a combat diver, usually meaning a Navy SEAL

_**Per Mare Per Terram**__ – _"By sea, by land", motto of the Royal Marines

**RUMINT** – intelligence based on a rumor

**SIM** – Subscriber Identity Module. An integrated circuit embedded into a small plastic card containing security information and a unique identifier for a mobile phone. Can be used to identify the user and track its location.

_**Utrinque Paratus – **_"Ready for anything", motto of the British Parachute Regiment

**Zodiac** – Brand of inflatable boat


End file.
